


Specimen Stokes

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drugging, Evil Scientist AU, Evil!Greg Sanders, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nick Stokes Whump, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shrinking Serum, Truth Serum, suffocation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24527998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: Detective Nick Stokes is captured by the elusive, mysterious scientist Greg Sanders, who takes him to his laboratory.
Relationships: Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown & Nick Stokes
Comments: 50
Kudos: 18





	1. Test Tube

**Author's Note:**

> for an anon on tumblr who probably didn't expect a fic to come out of this but it just SCREAMED at me. 
> 
> if you read this, you’re either gonna love/hate me for it but I had fun with it and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it? Dark!Greg and Nick Whump warning, to be continued?

Vertical.

He’s standing vertically. That much, he’s certain of. His feet are flat, his knees slightly buckled. His back is against a surface, the back of his skull meets the same hardness with a slightly painful impact as he lifts his chin off his chest. He instinctively tries to move his hands, rub the throbbing lump but his wrists are glued to his waist, scrunched together with some sort of fabric restraint, squeezing the air out of him. 

His shoulders jostle against the same sort of force, cloudy, teary eyes recognize it as the same sort of restraint used on hospital patients. 

Or insane criminals. 

He takes a breath as the thought had reminded him–though he quickly forgets again when the oxygen isn’t exchanged for the carbon dioxide through his air pipe. He begins to overcompensate, his chest quickly ventilating as he finds that the reason he’s being shorted on oxygen is simple–there’s no oxygen left to give him at all. 

Inches away from his face, a glass wall cuts him off from free flowing air. A glass wall that curves around him, enclosing him, _storing_ him next to two other glass tubes, one filled with purple liquid, the other filled with green. They almost seem to glow, though he chalks that up to his hazy vision as he wildly blinks to clear it up, only just being able to focus on what’s ahead of him, a void of black from his waist-level down, but on top of it, what appears to be a dark-lit room illuminated by various screens and a slow-flickering light, dim glows from assorted equipment connected by wires and tubes, bubbling liquids orchestrated by fast paced conductor–-a tall, lanky, white--coated humanoid on the other side of the room, moving with such a motion that, paired with the unintelligible, blaring–no, not just blaring, that’s being generous, it’s _screaming-–_ music, Nick deduces is the motion of _dancing._ He’s momentarily infuriated, even dares to huff and hope that the commotion alerts the dancer, but it doesn’t so he has to raise his voice–-

“H-hey!” he shouts, the only word he’s able to muster before his struggles intensify, as the figure beyond the glass grows _much_ larger than him as he draws near, leaning on the surface in front of Nick, who realizes that perhaps he’s on some sort of counter top, which is impossible, but then again…this does feel like something out of a sci-fi movie…

 _It’s just a trick of the glass,_ he thinks, when he’s met with the giant man’s face–-which he first mistakes for some sort of blurry rooster behind the growing layer of fog on the glass, but as the condensation precipitates, he realizes the man is wearing a surgical mask decorated to look like a clown, and he’s wearing a latex glove on his head. 

Nick’s mouth gapes open, but with the lack of oxygen, nothing leaves his body but a confused, high pitched squeak that makes his cheeks blossom in a sheepish blush, and puffing his chest doesn’t seem to make him any bigger than he feels.

“My, my, Detective Stokes. What a high endurance you have,” he’s just able to discern from the double-muffled noise, before a hand reaches out–Nick winces away, feeling suddenly bad for all the times he tapped on the glass enclosures that zoo animals were kept in–-and after a few jabs, the man’s hand moves to the side and then forward, wrapping around his right side–-Nick thinks that he’s about to be picked up–-

But to his shock, the glass moves and his body doesn’t. 

A pressurized hiss and gust of air in his face pulls his eyes nearly out of their sockets, but it’s not until his lungs contract and his tense body relaxes–-ever so slightly-–that his vision returns, and he finds that the surface he had mistaken for a counter was yes, a counter, but a portable one, which had moved a few feet away, littered with papers, and the man was around the same height as him, standing at attention with a notepad and taking notes. 

“Over _twenty-four hours_ spent in that chamber, and you’re still with us! Remarkable.”

“Who…who the _fuck_ are you?” Nick gasps. He shivers, the beads of sweat coating his body feeling like prickling icicles, a few which start to slide through the sea of goosebumps that arise all over his skin.

“Short term memory loss. Noted,” the man nods, dipping his pen towards Nick. “Though I suppose that could be a symptom of the oxygen deprivation, and judging by the confused look on your face, you are somewhere else entirely. Tell me, Nick, where are you?”

Nick remains silent, but he can see a fire light in his captor’s eyes, can feel the smile beneath the mask. 

“It’s easy to get so lost in life, isn’t it? One of my greatest pleasures,” the man continues, bringing over a white board on wheels. “Life is a game, and we are but the players on the board…but that doesn’t mean we can’t have our own fun, does it? Play our own games?”

He uncaps a marker, and begins to draw letters and symbols on the board.

“Tell me, Detective, what compound is this?”

“I failed chemistry,” Nick wheezes, though his sarcasm is not lost between his crushed ribs. 

“Ah, yet you have’t lost your wit. That is, after all, what _drew-–”_ the man pivots, his eyebrows raised eagerly to get a rise out of Nick, but even if he wasn’t still recovering from the pressurized suffocation, he wouldn’t bare his teeth for anything but a growl. “–-me to you, you were quite the player at the scene. I had almost mistaken you for one of those snoopy little CSIs…”

Nick scrunches his face, the three letters conjuring up a flurry of flashbacks, a recap to himself of the trail of evidence that had led him to this mad scientist’s lair, though he had mistakenly thought he was paying a visit to famous geneticist Greg Sanders, not to the serial offender in the drug trade known to the streets as “The Eggo Man.” 

Eggo. Gregg-o. Nick is grimly reminded about how he had been initially knocked out with a waffle iron at the man’s home. 

“Sodium thiopental, in case you were wondering. Which is a component in _truth serum,”_ Dr. Sanders points to the syringe in his hand. “I was hoping you would be a little more…cooperative, as I was with you…”

Nick flinches as the scientist moves towards his wrist, twisting it to expose a vein protruding from his skin. 

The man hesitates, holding his thumb as if taking Nick’s pulse, watching Nick’s reaction, and Nick sees…something else in the man’s eyes, beyond “scientific curiosity.” 

It distracts him from the insertion of the needle into his skin, a lagged seethe leaving his tight lips as the drug merges with the blood stream.

Dr. Sanders keeps his grip on his wrist, carelessly tossing the serum behind him. 

“Now…where did you think you were when you woke up?”

“I thought…I was…in…a test tube,” Nick pants, he can feel his ears burn as he tries to fight his own mouth, biting his lips, locking his tongue behind his teeth, but his tongue bursts through in extraordinary fashion, poking out and waving at the scientist before he reigns it back in. 

“How adorable. Though I’m afraid my shrinking formula has been a bust on the other lab rats, I can’t stand to risk it on my favorite _specimen_ just yet,” the mad man taps Nick on the nose with a teasing smirk that leads Nick to believe he’s only half-joking. “Perceptions are a tricky thing, aren’t they, Detective? Appearances can be deceiving. Just as I _perceive_ you to be a man of truth and justice, experience is showing me that you are not just that, you are a _survivor,_ a beacon of strength. And I’m sure you have…perceptions about me, don’t you?” 

The man removes the glove from his head, revealing the same fun, spiky hair he had seen on the man who greeted him warmly in the apartment. He can’t tell if he wants to flatten it or raise the spikes more, but his fingers twitch, he wants to run his hands through it.

Greg then removes the mask, revealing his plush, glossy lips that look so… _juicy_ to Nick that he was certain, if he bit down on the lower one, especially, it would taste just as sweet…

“Yeah…that you’re–you’re…” Nick seethes, he’s thinking one thing, but somehow, another word comes out of his mouth–”You’re hot.” 

Nick purses his lips as his body seizes, his fists curling, his muscles flexing and he suddenly becomes _very_ aware that he’s without a shirt, and Greg is looking at him like he’s a piece of food. 

“Hmm…perhaps your perception isn’t as twisted as I thought,” Greg muses, releasing Nick’s wrist to return to his notes. 

Nick can’t help but stare at his backside while he has it turned, and even without truth serum, he’d have to admit…it’s a pretty tight ass. 

“Subject displays affection even under extreme duress. A pure heart if I ever saw one,” Greg adds with a wink. “Which might make this next experiment rather difficult…But don’t worry, Detective. It’ll hurt you much more than it hurts me.”


	2. Waffle Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Stokes' first meeting with Dr. Sanders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so in love with this you have no idea. Can't thank that tumblr anon enough for allowing this to consume me. I hope y'all enjoy it, too!

Nick adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, straightens his tie before he clears his throat and delivers a curt knock of his knuckles against the wood in front of him. The suit feels tight on him, but all of his other dry cleaning had been lost in the mix, so he had to make do with the neglected part of his wardrobe, even if a few of the buttons on his white dress shirt were so taut that they were just itching to pop off. 

He breathes through his nose, and his nostrils tingle with the delightful smell of what he identifies as a fresh pot of coffee, so strong that it had seeped through the crack under the door of the apartment he was calling on. 

“Who is it?” a voice calls over the muffled sounds of a pulsing bass, one that gently vibrates the thin carpet of the floor beneath him. He briefly wonders if he had come across the wrong apartment. Based on sounds alone, he should be expecting an answer from a younger, more rambunctious individual, not a world renowned scientist held in the highest academic honors. 

“Detective Stokes, I’m with the LVPD, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The music lowers and the door is opened to reveal the presumed younger face that he recognizes as the one that he saw on the back of the book Grissom had handed to him when the discussion was opened about the scientist--but his hair is not as flat as it was in the picture, rather freed and ruffled in a such a carefree yet, cared for manner. Nick can see the glisten of hair gel under the yellow lighting, can see the blonde-dyed tips sprouting from brown roots atop his head. His manner of dress is more relaxed, goofy, even, a patterned shirt in the stead of the bow tie and suspenders underneath a lab coat. 

“Dr. Sanders?” he asks for positive confirmation, in the event that somehow the man had a twin on the opposite side of professionalism.

“Guilty,” the man smirks. He extends his free hand and gestures to his home. “Please, come on in, Detective.”

“I’m sorry to be calling on you so late.”

Nick immediately scopes out the room, no apparent threat not that he expected one, anyway. Just a purely academic call on an expert for some third party advice, as all of his CSIs were stretched thin and overworked. 

Despite his initial assumptions, the apartment was remarkably clean. Minimalist, though most of the “clutter” was located on an expansive bookshelf that lines and entire wall of the room, filled with such variety that he wouldn’t have thought this man to be a man of science at all, but a jack of all trades. 

He even spots a Dreamcast between the towering stereo speakers, and he has to clear his throat from the itching nostalgia, though he saves the observation for use as an ice or tension breaker if he ends up needing one. Connection and empathy with others is what he's most known for as a detective, though he can hear the voice of his mentor, Jim Brass, in the back of his head warning him not to get _too_ close in his comfort, even to a witness. 

“That’s quite alright, I’m open twenty-four hours,” the scientist’s grin spreads ear to ear. 

“So is the rest of Vegas, I suppose,” Nick smiles contagiously, and catches wind of a chuckle that comes out of the younger man at his comment. 

“Can I offer you anything? I just brewed a fresh pot of my extraordinary gourmet coffee--Blue Hawaiian, I must insist you try some.”

“Yes, that would be great, actually.”

“Make yourself at home, please, sit down.”

Nick unbuttons his suit jacket, holds his tie as he settles into an armchair, crosses a leg over and continues to look around the room. The kitchen does not match the rest of the apartment, it’s messy, littered with take-out boxes, pots, pans, overturned cans and styrofoam cups. Dr. Sanders lifts one up, examines it and tosses it aside as he reaches into a cabinet that’s jam packed with snacks and--magazines? Nick’s eyes squint, he’s just barely able to spot a rather beautiful woman on the cover before the cabinet is snapped shut--and the scientist winks at him while he pours a fresh cup of steaming coffee into a mug that’s shaped like a beaker. 

“Please excuse the mess, I usually tidy up for visitors…” Dr. Sanders shrugs as he hands Nick the mug, before retreating back with it. “Oh, how do you take it?”

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare--” Nick scratches the back of his head with a free hand, while Dr. Sanders rounds around the back of Nick’s chair, circling him like a shark. It makes him uncomfortable, even more so when he leans over Nick’s shoulder and picks up the coffee cup before Nick can even bring it to his lips. Nick can't help the rise of a sharp inhale out of the startle, though Dr. Sanders had pressed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“Silly me, I forgot to ask, how do you take it?”

“Oh...two sugars, thank you," Nick shifts in his chair, petting down the goosebumps on the back of his neck. "Again, I don’t want to make it seem like I’m snooping or anything--” 

Dr. Sanders moves behind the couch across from Nick, his hands out of sight for a few seconds until one raises up, palm up.

“It’s quite alright. I know, I know, it’s easy to just sit, be the silent observer, try to figure it all out. I’m a bit younger than people think, people often confuse me for the student rather than the professor.”

“Definitely not a problem in my eyes,” Nick chuckles, wiping his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “The boys at the precinct still tease me about being a frat boy.”

His finger traces the outline of where his fraternity ring usually sits, the one he wears when he’s off the clock. Dr. Sanders brings him the coffee which he accepts with a quiet “thanks.”

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of Vegas’...well, if you don’t mind me saying--one of the most certainly  _ finest  _ calling on me at such an hour?” 

Nick’s cheeks blush deeply as he swallows a sip of the best coffee he’s ever tasted. 

“I-I’m sorry, I can’t help it, you’re just…” Greg touches his fingers to his lips and shakes his head. His fingers dance in the air, circling over Nick’s entire body. “Such a... _ specimen _ .”

Nick’s eyes widen while he nearly chokes on the coffee. 

“Forgive me--” Greg shakes his head with a deprecating chuckle, hiding his face with a hand.

“It’s alright,” Nick waves off. “I’ve been known to bat for that team, if you get my drift.”

“Oh, y-you do?” Greg stammers, wiping his hand over his face, his eyelashes fluttering. 

“Yeah... _ guilty,” _ Nick blushes, holding up his own hand, palm up before returning to his coffee. He clears his throat, though the sweetly warm taste still lingers, he draws out a long, deep breath before continuing, “But I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. Tell me, what can I do for you, Detective?”

“I know you’re not an expert in forensics, but I heard you’re one of the go-tos in the world of DNA, and not only that, but Old Vegas history, too. A man by the name of Gil Grissom referred you to me to discuss this case I’m trying to solve, it involves both the mob and an unidentified bloodline we think might be connected...” Nick trails off, his head suddenly feels light, and in contrast, the pressure in the room seems to hone in on him, sinking him back into the armchair. 

“Grissom, huh? Never thought the old coot would think of me like that. I thought I was nothing but a pest to him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s the bug guy. He loves all sorts of ‘pests,’” Nick drawls, his tongue pokes out to retrieve a dribble of drool that dares to try and escape through the corner of his lips. “Spoke very highly of you, said you were one of his favorite students.”

“Well, I’m honored on all accounts. I’ve always wanted to help out on a murder case! So, give me the deets!” His eyebrows raise up in perky fashion, Nick can't help but dimly wonder if his giddiness is some sort of manifestation of nervous energy, though the wandering thoughts don't get far, drowning in a sea of drowsiness.

Nick snorts into the coffee he had hoped would save him from falling into the call to sleep that was pulling his eyelids down, but as he tries to keep the sloshing liquid contained in the mug, it spills onto his shirt and lap. 

“Ah, damn,” Nick curses, wincing as he carefully sets the coffee on the table, the hot liquid soaking through his shirt and simmering on his skin. 

“Are you okay, Detective?” 

“Yeah, yeah, can I just--” Nick stands up, gesturing towards the sink. The scientist guides him with a firm hand on his back, and Nick reaches for a few paper towels while he runs the tap. 

“I’ve got something that can get those stains out,” Dr. Sanders offers, but Nick doesn’t hear him. 

His eyes had fallen on a cast iron waffle maker, its halves spread apart on the messy counter. 

He thinks back to the victims, the odd grid pattern that was never identified. 

A grid pattern that they had all  _ joked  _ looked like a waffle...and actually was. 

“I...I never said this was a murder case…” Nick mumbles. 

His fingers reach for his gun, but aren’t as fast as the fingers that wrap around the handle of the iron, that flies up from the counter, whacking him in his face. 

He falls on his back, crying out as a spike of pain shoots up his spine in the impact--he grits his teeth, suddenly regretting not taking better care of the back issues that had developed from an injury a few years ago. He feels his chest expand like a balloon, a few of the buttons on his shirt pop as he wheezes, the tie around his neck suddenly feels  _ too  _ tight, constricting his throat. 

When his vision clears up from the distorted, hazy blur, he sees the tall, lanky frame of Dr. Sanders looming above him. He had expected a look of concern, maybe even a frown on the man’s face, but instead, it's _his_ turn to stare at Nick...with a wide, malicious smile on his face. 

“Well, now, that shirt is just completely ruined, isn’t it? Let me help you with that…”

In a blinking flash, the scientist is crouching above Nick, folding up his suit jacket--and with another blink that's longer than the first, Nick’s head lunges forward, his chin meeting his chest before his tie is ripped off, and his head is knocked back onto the cold, hard kitchen tile, sending him back to the bottom of the dazing pit he tries to mentally scramble out of

“Doctor...gotta...get he-help…” Nick breathes, somehow hoping that the good scientist wasn’t his assailant though all of the evidence told him that yes, he is, and he shouldn’t trust him in the slightest. 

“Let’s cease with the formalities, shall we...Nick?” the scientist muses as he removes Nick’s ID badge from his waist. “You can call me Greg. Though truthfully, I’d much prefer something more...esteemed, like my doctorate title or …’Master.’”

“Leggo...Greggo…” Nick’s voice drones through a tight groan as Greg peels off the folds of his shirt. 

“Aw, you’re so cute,” Greg muses, pinching Nick’s nose in a playful tug. “Almost a shame. Perhaps if we had met at another time, another life...it wouldn’t have to be like this.”

“It...ssssstill...doesn’t…” 

Nick has to think fast, he reaches a hand up to grab a fist full of Greg’s hair, maybe he could leave it on the floor as evidence--

But this guy is obviously smarter than that. He’ll have the place cleaned up in no time. 

And beyond that, Nick can’t exude the effort it would take to pull strands of hair out of the man’s scalp.

To his astonishment, Greg didn’t even bother stopping him from trying.

Instead, he let out a long moan. 

“Oh, Nick...as much as I appreciate the gesture, I’m afraid we have no time for this right now,” Greg sighs, placing his hand on top of Nick’s and easily removing it from his head, dropping it onto his chest. “Rather, I believe it’s time to box you up and give you a tour of the lab...or should I say...your new home.”

A box that Nick quickly discovers is  _ not _ a figure of speech. 


	3. Masterpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a dangerous, slightly erotic turn and Nick momentarily loses himself before he's put in his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to change the rating for this chapter...you'll see why.

“My, my, my, Detective, I fear I must apologize,” Greg muses as he moves around his counter, revealing to Nick the array of syringes and vials that he was tending to. “I didn’t mean to cause you such terror.” 

“I ain’t scared of you,” Nick growls through gritted teeth. His knuckles dare to rip through his skin, he can feel his fingernails digging so deeply he worries his palm is going to pop.

“By the look in your eyes, I beg to differ,” Greg points out as he flicks the tip of the syringe that he carries over to his captive. “And not only that, you just seem so... _tense."_

Nick's muscles flex, veins throb, but under the restraints, any struggle is useless. 

“Oh, I promise you, you will be free from this _test tube_ quite shortly,” Greg teases, Nick’s cheeks burn. “But first I insist that you _relax…”_

Gloved fingers push into Nick’s neck, forcibly tilting his head to the right. He feels Greg’s fingers flick against a throbbing vein while he uses his other hand to keep Nick’s head from snapping back, feeling as if he’s being treated more like an animal than a human being. Nick’s breath is sharp, furious, as he tries to push his cranium against Greg’s hand, knock him away--the man is remarkably thinner than Nick, after all, he shouldn’t be that difficult to take down, and Nick’s taken down suspects much larger than him. Even in his restrained state, he could simply knock his head into the man, perhaps knock some sense into him--

But Nick misses his window of opportunity, when Greg slides his tongue out and licks his neck, distracting him with a shudder that slides in a wrapping movement down from the spot, to his spine, to his crotch, and he moans when the sensation is interrupted by a prick to his neck. An injection. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Greg whispers into Nick’s ear. “I know it hurts, just let go…”

Nick’s head droops down, as Greg pats the top of his hair, his neck is released from its taut tension. He bobs his head slightly up and down, searching for the least straining position, his eyes trained on the floor as he hears the sound of velcro unlatching. A similar tension releases from his shins, then his waist, and finally his chest. The tiled floor he had been studying as he struggled to regain control of his body flies towards him, expanding before colliding with his face. 

The slap of his body hitting the floor is somehow more painful than the impact itself. He had turned his head, saving his nose, but his ear takes most of the damage, offsetting his sense of balance as a consequence. He convinces himself that he’s simply standing up against a wall, tries to walk but his legs don’t seem to listen to him. Instead, they tingle and twitch--curling his toes is just about all he can manage to do. 

He enlists his lungs to work overtime, his breathing labors roughly, as if he’d be able to get his muscles to work again with the promise of abundant oxygen.

But his muscles seem to be taking a little break right now, just as the scientist seems to when he crouches down to examine his handiwork, sitting cross-legged on an impossibly tilted angle. 

“My feisty little specimen, why do you keep fighting this?” Greg shakes his head, stroking Nick’s cheek as the rest of Nick’s body twitches. Nick manages to lure one of his hands around.

“Quit callin’ me that…” Nick huffs. He tries to raise his hand, reaching out with intent to use his captor as leverage to rise to his feet, but just as soon as his hand rises, it falls back down with a _plop!_

Greg chuckles and moves out of Nick’s line of sight, even as his eyes strain to the edges of his periphery, his good ear perking up to listen to what the scientist might be up to now. 

He wishes he didn’t, when he hears the jostling of chains. 

The other hand that had fallen palm-up next to his waist is lifted, Nick instinctively tries to twist around but his shoulders keep him pinned to the floor. His arm is lifted behind him and remains trapped in the air as a metal cuff is clamped around his wrist. 

“What’re you doing?” he breathes, after he hears a clip securing itself around his belt behind his back.

“Getting my puppet ready for the show,” Greg’s tongue is poking out through his teeth when he returns to Nick’s view, tenderly stroking Nick’s free hand as he studies Nick’s face. His lips stretch into a smile. “Come now, Detective, I think you’ll find yourself some fun in this experiment. You’re going to be able to fly like the birds that you seem to hold such an interest in, from the multiple books you seem to own on the topic.”

“You...you were in my home?” 

“Only to take care of some loose ends. Wouldn’t want our time together to get cut shorter than it has to be. As far as your friends are concerned, you went back to Texas to visit dear ol' Jillian and...Cisco, I believe you call him?”

Nick’s nostrils flare, the rage shakes his body out of its paralysis as his fingers curl into a fist, scraping the palm of Greg’s hand and ripping his glove. Greg removes his other hand, his face falls for a moment as Nick’s fist lunges at the lips that were mere seconds away from kissing his hand--

His swipe is intercepted with the other shackle that drops back to the floor like an anchoring stone. Nick cries out in frustration as Greg gets to his feet quickly--Nick can’t help but wonder if he had managed to finally intimidate the man. He turns his face into the floor, attempts to push up using his forehead but he doesn’t need to. He’s pulled up by his waist, hoisted in the air, bent so uncomfortably he worries that he’s going to break in half, but his wrists are pulled up towards the ceiling, and his torso rises with it. He squeezes his eyes as he’s moved through the air, a grinding movement sheathes above him as the chains clatter. He feels his feet sway in the motion, but he can’t fulfill the urge to flail his body free from this puppeteering. His cheeks burn with humiliation as he can only imagine the look on the scientist’s face--which isn’t as different from the reality he finds when his eyes are coaxed open.

Or rather, forced open, by the gloved fingers of the mad man. 

“I was worried you had passed out, it’s far too early for that!” Greg beams before tapping Nick’s cheek with his hand. He swivels away, taking off his gloves with a snap that makes Nick’s body snap into a violent twitch. The scientist reaches for a thin paintbrush and a tube that Nick can barely make out the label of. Liquid latex. 

“Time to get you in costume, must imagine you’re feeling quite naked without your shirt,” Greg winks, as he dips the paintbrush into the tube, drawing out a glob of neon purple. He slowly approaches Nick, which doesn’t help the dread sweating from his numbed limbs. 

He starts at Nick’s collar bone, drawing a single line down his chest to his navel with the purple paint. Taking his time, relishing the developing discomforting panic in Nick’s eyes as a twinkle develops in his own.

“Stop!” Nick whines. He hopes Greg doesn’t go lower than that, doesn’t find the bulge that has risen out of the muscle memory of experiencing this before, just with a more...edible substance. 

“Hmm, this might take longer than I imagined,” Greg mutters. He sets the paintbrush down and Nick is momentarily relieved before he is shocked with the sight of Greg pouring the tube onto the palms of his hands, rubbing them together before flexing his fingers in a grabbing motion towards Nick--but his hands simply press up against Nick’s breasts before they sink into him entirely, pushing him back, back, back until he’s pushed back against a wall, the clip on his belt sending a shock up his spine, and a sharp groan is topped off with a weak squeak from his throat as he feels his nipples harden underneath Greg’s palms…

Greg’s splayed hands begin to massage him, distorting the painted hand prints on Nick’s chest as his hands begin to slide all over the front of Nick’s body. He can feel Greg’s warm breath up against his neck, feels a more moist gliding in heavy contrast to the drying paint travel from his neck to his ear, which is pierced with the gentle nibble of teeth that makes Nick grind his own together, frustrated with his conflicting emotions. 

Fear, anger, grief that he had been reduced to nothing but a slave to cater to this insane criminal’s whims...but also...enticed by the danger, and turned on by the meticulous care that was being inflicted upon him.

At least, in this particular moment, as instinct screams at him to remember what had happened before, but he ignores his own voice for the sake of his own tongue that dares to poke out, 

“Ooh,” Greg giggles. “I see the show has more than one fan…”

“Shut up,” Nick hisses, before licking the side of Greg’s face, the tip of his tongue enticing the man’s face to turn up against his own, so that he can begin to coat Greg with a layer of his own paint, although saliva isn’t as sexy as the latex that now covers his entire torso, wrapping around his back as Greg begins to wrap himself around Nick, crawling up his body. He has to stand on his tip-toes--which is much more adorable to Nick than he would care to let on--just to let Nick’s tongue find his own.

Their lips find each other, Nick can taste the lip gloss on the scientist, just as Greg can feel the dry cracks on Nick’s chapped lips that recover as he waters them with their mixture of saliva, but after a minute a spark is ignited. The hairs on the back of Nick’s head rise up with the goosebumps, a reaction that snaps Nick out of his trance, reminding him that he has _no_ control in this situation. 

In an act of defiance, he uses the only part of his body he has control over.

A passionate kiss turns into a primal attack.

Nick sinks his teeth into Greg’s lower lip, the fruity taste of the gloss lost to the taste of blood. 

Greg immediately pulls away, his hands that had wrapped themselves around from behind tug on Nick’s hair, pulling his head down before it snaps up against the back of the wall. The two men recover from the pain as they pant into the thickened air. Greg staggers back, his hands shaking and his eyes darkened with an emotion Nick had yet to see on the man. Genuine anger. 

“I hope you see that you can trust me now,” Greg breathes, touching the back of his finger to his throbbing lower lip. “But I’m afraid there’s no biting in my laboratory, Detective. And now we must pause the experiment for a quick lecture on etiquette.” 

The paint begins to melt on Nick as he sweats profusely, gulping with pouting lips as he realizes he may have just made the biggest mistake in upsetting his captor.

“But first…” Greg reaches for the other end of the chains attached to the pulley system Nick hadn’t quite understood the concept of before. He’s able to manipulate each of Nick’s arms individually with two separate chains. He droops one hand slightly down, his elbow bends in alignment with the top of his head, while the other is dropped lower, perpendicular to his shoulder. Greg then moves over to a cabinet, pulling out giant, colorful thumbtacks. He lifts one of Nick’s legs up, pulling on the fabric of his pants rather than the flesh, and pins it so that his knee is bent. He tugs at the fabric of the other leg, pulling so that his leg remains mostly straight, but spreads it apart before pinning it to the wall, which he now registers is not a normal drywall, it’s composed of cork board. 

He has two more push pins, and drives each one to the space beneath his armpits. 

“There…now _that’s_ a work of art,” Greg smiles, stroking his chin and his eyes glaze over with a clinical sense of observation--the same look Nick knows he uses himself, when he’s looking at his own bulletin board of pins and drawstrings. “A true masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”


	4. Petri Dish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick gets the lesson in etiquette and becomes a lab rat in more ways than one for the scientist who seems to get even madder than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a brave leap here and a full dive into the sci-fi genre. Been dancing around the imagery around this for a long time with various fics, but I'm finally taking the plunge here.  
> Good luck.

“Wakey, wakey, Detective…”

His head pounding, _stinging,_ worse than any hangover he’s had before--and he’s had plenty from his days as a frat boy, and the nights of indulgence in a secret bottle of whiskey hidden in his desk after a tough case. 

Nearly all of his cases are tough.

He knows Brass knows that too, but is mercifully the only one who doesn’t tease him about it.

But his mouth is void of any sort of taste, and he’s most definitely not at home. Not at his office. 

Memories shutter rapidly as his eyes flutter open and squeeze shut at the bright light assaulting his vision, which wasn’t there before. He struggles to think of when his eyes had closed in the first place. 

He remembers being pinned to the board, remembers the scientist standing there and just...watching him. For seconds. For minutes. For _hours._ Wordlessly watching while Nick writhed, but not too much, because he knew if one of the pins came loose, he’d fall off onto the floor, and while it would be an ample chance for escape, he knew it wouldn’t come so easy. The shackles were still around his wrist, the muscles in his arms cramped from contraction, his legs tingling with numbness. By the time his body would catch up to his mind, Dr. Sanders could overpower him with relative ease. 

He gulps, his lips dry and his voice taught. Perhaps he had passed out of sheer exhaustion, it wouldn’t have been the first time. Probably won’t be the last. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t had proper hydration in...oh god, he doesn’t even remember how long he’s been in captivity.

Someone has to be looking for him. 

Someone has to know he’s missing.

Warrick, maybe. His partner, or at least, if he’s over the fight that had split them up on this case in the first place. 

But how would Warrick find him now, considering he doesn’t even know where he is himself? 

And not only that, but unbeknownst to even himself, he’s quite literally the size of a needle in a haystack. A revelation he finds out rather quickly, as the mad scientist emerges from the shadows behind the spotlight that had been aimed at his body, approaching him with a pair of tweezers. 

At first he thinks that he’s going to use them to just poke around his skin. Peel off the latex. But as he grows nearer, Nick’s mouth gapes and lets out a shout of disbelief, when the instrument is used to grab him underneath his armpits. He’s pulled away from the board, his pants ripping through the pins, which fall and clatter to the floor below him which is seemingly a bottomless pit--he can’t even make out the bottom with the spotlight that had been shone on him.

His arms fall, and though they shake from the exertion of being held up for such a long time, he pulls the minute amount of strength his has to grip the instrument that grips him--it’s a loose grip, and his feet kick their way through the pins and needles that pulsate through every pore in his skin, fearful that he’d be dropped to the void beneath him and broken like a wingless bird. 

“What did you do to me?” Nick shouts, and Greg seems to giggle--he can’t help but wonder if his voice sounds more like a squeak to him at this size, or if the man is simply relishing Nick’s struggle.

“Made myself a little keychain,” Greg smiles, using his free hand to pull up the chains still attached to Nick’s wrists by pulling a loop that had been previously unseen to Nick. He holds him still with the tweezers and the ring of the chain as he carries him to the lab bench and lays him down on the table. He removes the tweezers, but keeps hold on the ring before using a piece of tape to keep it in place. 

Nick tries to flail his way out, wrapping his fingers around the chain and pulling--he strains to look above him, sees the ring just ever so slightly budge underneath the thin piece of tape--he kicks up a leg, ready to get to his feet, but his ankles are pushed together, his legs pulled straight and then taped down to the table, too. 

One final piece of tape to his waist, and while he can lift his head, lift his wrists, he’s effectively restrained enough, too weak to even lift a damn piece of tape that can’t even hold the broken bridge of a pair of his glasses together. 

Dr. Sanders leans his face closer--so close that Nick can feel his hot breath wash over him, can see himself in the shining irises of his eyes, can see each individual tooth in his giddy smile as he once again just... _watches_ Nick. 

And worse than that, he watches as the scientist’s tongue glides over his lips, a drop of his saliva dripping and landing right onto Nick’s face. 

Nick sputters for air and the scientist pulls back, reaching over to a box of Kimwipes and using one to wipe Nick’s face off--Nick fights against it, daring to bite at the gloved fingers that brush against his cheek in a stroking motion. 

“Specimen Stokes still exhibits defiance in his miniaturized state…” Dr. Sanders notes as he begins to write in a notebook, seemingly ignoring Nick’s continued protests. 

“Stop this right now! Make me big again!” 

A ruler is set next to him, the scientist lays a finger level at the top of Nick’s head to the ruler. 

“Three point eight-five inches,” he announces. “A little shorter than the original target of four, but then again, the specimen appears to be the runt of his litter.”

The piece of tape around his waist is removed, easing up the tension on his gut and allowing Nick’s rapidly heavy breathing to manifest with the rise and fall of his stomach. 

The scientist sets down his pen, and picks up the tweezers again. 

“Wh-What are you doing?” Nick cries out, as the scientist playfully opens and closes the two arms while they descend slowly towards his stomach. 

The tip pokes into his gut, his yelps turn into a groan as the instrument is dragged around, dangerously close to the more sensitive parts of his body before it’s mercifully lifted. 

“Body parts all seem to be in place…” 

The tool descends down again, this time towards his pants. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Nick hollers, and the scientist pauses, furrowing his eyebrows at Nick before softening the features of his face. 

“Why, you think the worst of me, Detective. We are certainly not on that base just yet--is that the phrasing you prefer? I’m afraid I’m not big on sports, just as you’re not big at all...” the scientist finally addresses him. 

“Just stop this!” Nick pleads. “I won’t tell anyone, just let me go--”

“It’s a big world out there, Detective. I’m certain you wouldn’t want me to let you go like this, would you?”

“Turn me back, then. Again, I won’t--”

“Won’t say a word, won’t tell a soul. I wish I could believe you, but I’m afraid we both know what would happen if I let you go, wouldn’t we? You’re a man of the law, in quite an esteemed position that would grant you many pawns willing to take a bullet for you. My empire is vast, connections and roots so deep you probably don’t even realize that the playing field is more than doubled when you go against me. Isn’t there enough bloodshed on the streets? And besides...” The scientist moves the tweezers up to Nick’s face, squeezing his cheeks together. He leans in close, pulling Nick’s head up to meet him. 

“I’ll take good care of you, my little specimen,” he whispers to Nick. 

He removes the tweezers, Nick’s head bounces against the cold stainless steel of the table and he’s too dazed to realize that the latex is being peeled off his chest until it’s dangled in front of his face, and he feels goosebumps rise over his exposed torso. 

“You might get overheated if we keep this on for the next phase in our experiment,” Dr. Sanders explains, as he then releases Nick’s wrists from the shackles while Nick still feigns his recovery until he seizes the chance to act--he springs up, his freed hands peel the tape away from his ankles and he dives out of the way of the approaching hand belonging to the frowning face of the scientist who doesn’t even seem that surprised, rather, annoyed. 

Nick picks up the tweezers, gritting his teeth and trying to hide the fact that this is not as easy as he thought it would be--but he can’t think of that, can’t think about how truly weak he is at this size, and instead focus on keeping up this defense as the scientists fingers approach. He jabs at them, knowing he certainly won’t be able to incapacitate the man, but maybe he can distract him enough to find a place to hide, and then develop a plan to escape. 

The first phase works, the hand is pulled back after being stabbed with the dual metal tips--he must have managed to get him right under the fingernails, in fact, as Dr. Sanders pulls off the glove to examine a small prick of blood that had burst through his skin. Nick uses the chance to make a break for it, stumbling at first before he slides on the slick counter, intent on diving underneath some large piece of equipment and he dares to look back to find that his progress was not that much at all, and that the scientist had recovered quickly, and he’s quickly entrapped in an overturned beaker, tumbling within the glass cylinder as he’s pulled towards the edge of the counter.

His heart spikes, worried that he’s going to fall, perhaps he had annoyed Dr. Sanders so much that he’d be tossed with the trash, or crushed under his foot, or otherwise in a worsened situation.

Perhaps he should have just listened. Go along with it all. Make things easier. But this isn’t right, it’s not just. And his job is to serve the large blind woman, keep the balance on the scale she holds, even if that means fighting for justice, fighting for survival. 

Even if it’s justice for himself. Survival for _himself._

To his surprise, as he screams out and flails in the air, reaching out for the edge of the counter or anything to hold onto, he finds that the fall is cut off quickly as he lands on some sort of padded surface. He bounces on it at first, before he’s pinned down with something large poking against his chest. He immediately puts his hands up against it, tries to lift it but it’s a futile effort as he quickly realizes that he had landed right into the palm of Dr. Sander’s hand, and that he was batting his fists against the fingernail of the man’s forefinger. 

“Detective, I must insist that you _relax,_ you’re going to need your strength,” Dr. Sanders croons as he begins to stroke Nick’s body in the palm of his hand with the tip of his finger. The latex behind him is uncomfortable, tight, snapping against the bare skin of his back if he wriggles too much. He reluctantly remains still as he shuts his eyes against the whiplash of sudden movement, remembering the similar sensations from carnival rides that similarly lifted and moved him through the air. 

“I must say I’m impressed, as always, with your endurance. The previous subjects I tested this solution on didn’t make it this far…” Dr. Sanders smiles down at him with maliciousness in his eyes. 

“O-other subjects?” Nick stammers. “You’ve done this before?” 

“This drug is a newer development, I have clients who claim that they want to use it for the transport of their wares, but I know the business, I know the clientele and I know it won’t be long until it’s used on another human being. So I want to make sure that those who find themselves on the other end of the stick have at least a fighting chance, it’s only fair.”

“None of this is fair!” Nick cries out. “You’re insane!” 

His head is flicked backwards as the scientist’s finger lifts his chin. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the lesson I need to give you on etiquette, Detective,” the man tells Nick in a warning tone, before he pulls Nick up holding him by his neck between this thumb and forefinger. “Or need I remind you who’s in charge here?” 

Nick gasps for air, his legs dangling. He tries to fight it, but can’t help the words that come out of his mouth--

“Okay...okay, you’re--you’re in charge...” he begs.

“That’s what I thought,” Greg smiles. He uses his other hand to wrap his fingers around Nick’s waist, releasing his neck grip. Nick falls over onto Greg’s thumb, gasping for the air that he had been deprived of, but the scientist doesn’t let him rest for long before he pulls Nick up straight with that thumb and pulls him to his face. 

“I told you, Nick...I’ll take good care of you, but only if you remember your place,” Greg whispers to him, and even his whispers are like a roar to Nick’s ears, feeling sick as Greg plants a long, wet kiss that engulfs his whole head--it doesn’t last long before he’s brought back out into the suddenly cool air, feeling all sorts of conflicting emotions--violated but loved in an act of connection that he can’t reciprocate, or at least, not on the same scale. 

It’s terrifying...but also, intriguing. In another time, another place, this would have been a chance for an exploration of the human body like no other. He supposes it appeals to the scientist within himself, the one that he could have been.

He wonders if perhaps Greg could have been his partner, in that event. 

Greg holds him up against his lips, as if contemplating whether to take him for another plunge, even tapping him like a pencil to his lips, though it’s a message that Nick receives loud and clear--and he plants a kiss on the larger man’s lip. 

“My saliva’s getting on you, your saliva’s getting on me,” Greg muses as he feels the small tickle against his still sore lip, and Nick realizes that he had been tricked into kissing the same wound he had inflicted on the man. “Thank you for the kiss to make it better, my little lollipop.”

Greg wafts his tongue over him in a gentle lick, and Nick tries to hide his incredulous smile giving away that on some level, he might even be enjoying this.

But on another level, he’s fully aware that again, he has no real power in this situation.

Except maybe the power of seduction. 

Before he’s able to try another appeal, they seem to arrive at their destination. He doesn’t get a good enough look but recognizes the structure--a maze meant for mice. 

“We’re going to test your senses, see if they’re as a- _cute_ as your scrumptious body,” Greg reveals to him as he rolls Nick off of his palm to the entrance of the maze. 

“I’m not your fucking lab rat!” Nick shouts back, getting to his feet and crossing his arms with a puff of defiance in his chest. 

“You know...I was a lab rat once. It’s not so bad, I promise. Go on, now, little guy. Make me proud.”

Nick’s poked into the small opening, meant for an actual rat before something is slammed behind him, sealing him in. Greg appears at the top of the maze behind the glass ceiling, drumming his fingers to get Nick’s attention and pointing towards his first obstacle, a fork in the road. 

“Do you need a hint?” Greg’s muffled voice asks him. 

Nick looks up at him, his face scrunched in anger as he starts down the straight path, his fists balled in determination. He’s gonna get out of this damn maze and out of this damn lab and find some way to get the tables turned to give Greg the same humiliation he’s currently enduring, as Greg’s not just watching anymore, he’s _laughing_ as Nick continues to hit dead ends, making turns and at one point, even finds himself back where he started. 

The laughter intensifies as Nick gets increasingly more frustrated, breaking out in a run, pounding on the walls, furious tears burning his eyes. He’s smarter than this. He’s _bigger_ than this. He can feel every second, every minute ticked away in waste as he continues this maddening feat, building a mental map in his mind to replace the reminding face of his ridicule that’s burned into the back of his eyes. 

After an hour, he finds himself at the beginning once again, after taking every branching path he could think of, and stubbornly decides not to play along, sitting cross-legged at the entrance. 

“C’mon, now, Detective, don’t be so upset. You can do it,” Greg goads him in the most sickeningly sweet voice, opening the lid to the maze and poking at Nick’s unbudging body, attempting to tease his folded arms apart. 

“Fuck off!” Nick snaps, batting away Greg’s finger. “I’ve gone down every path, there’s no way out. It’s a trap. The maze is impossible.” 

“You’re right.”

“What?” Nick asks incredulously, getting to his feet and looking up at the man.

“Each path leads you right back to the start, or to a dead end. There is no way out. It was all a trick, a test, because there is one way out...but not a way you would think.”

“What--how--what do I need to do, then?” Nick asks. 

“I told you, we need to teach you a lesson on _etiquette,_ Detective,” Greg smirks. “So go on, use your manners, I know you have them.”

Nick gulps down whatever dignity he has left, though his eyebrows narrow, his thumping heart sinks. 

“Please. Please let me out of the maze,” Nick demands sullenly, though it’s less of a demand and more of a reluctant plea. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Greg reaches in and lifts Nick up and out, wrapping him in his fingers. Nick instinctively begins to struggle as he’s carried to yet another counter and he rolls his eyes with an exhausted sigh, unsure if he’ll have it in him to suffer whatever Greg wants to do now…

“Please be gentle,” he cries, hoping that maybe Greg will grant him some ounce of mercy as he’s squeezed tighter this time in Greg’s vice grip on his body in response to his wriggling.

But he doesn’t know that Greg had tightened him after seeing something on a television monitor behind Nick’s body, and if Nick had seen what was on the screen, he certainly would have struggled a lot more.

“I would, if you wouldn’t try so hard to get out of my grasp and fall to the floor. I wouldn’t want to step on you…”

“Not yet, at least,” he adds with a deadpan tease, though all trace of humor and joy is suddenly lost on the man. He opens a small scale fume hood on the counter, pulls out a beaker filled with some sort of...liquid, but it looks almost like gel. Tinted purple, the same shade of purple he had painted on Nick’s body hours before. 

He sets it on the counter, and pulls an empty container from a stack of plates, opening the lid and placing Nick inside--he just fits, and begins to wonder if his height had been calculated for these dimensions. 

Nick immediately tries to sit up, but he’s pinned down with Greg’s finger, before what he identifies as agar is poured on top of him, surrounding him but not submerging him entirely. His face is still exposed, he can still breathe...for now. 

He’s distracted him long enough for Greg to remove his finger and quickly place the lid on him. Nick tries to raise his hands and feet, lift the lid off but there are two things that stop him: One, he’s not strong enough, the lid wouldn’t budge even if he tried. Two, the warmed agar is cooling off, it’s going to solidify, he’ll effectively be embedded in a jello mold. 

“Tell me, Detective...where do you think you are?” Greg asks as he lifts the plate towards his face. 

“A...petri dish,” Nick grunts, his struggles slowing in the face of defeat. 

“Ding, ding, ding, you finally got one right!” the mad smile returns, and the plate is returned to a level position, and he’s slid across the table like a hockey puck on an air table. 

He can hear the muffled opening of a door, sees a cloud of cold air that he’s pushed into--

“No, Greg, please!” he calls out, the agar grows thicker, harder, compressing around his body. The pores of his skin rise up, he’s stuck in an uncomfortably cold limbo, flashing back to his college days of inoculating loops and drawing smiley faces with bacteria as a professor lectures the class on the different types of pathogens that can make someone sick...or die. 

“Let’s see what _grows,_ shall we?” Greg says, before he shuts the door on the mini fridge, and leaves Nick on the shelf while he goes to tend to his visitor at the entrance of the lab.


	5. Dustpan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Sanders receives a visitor, Detective Brown, who has come around looking for Nick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting much longer than I intended, so I figured I'd split this chapter into two...or three

He places the petri dish on the bottom of a stack of five.

Greg knows that he wouldn’t _really_ be able to escape, not with his body embedded in the agar, not with the shrinkage of his muscles relative to his height, and certainly not with the stress of not having eaten or drank anything--which reminds him that he probably should give his subject some sustenance or else their time will be cut much shorter than he would like. 

Up to him, they would dance this tango forever. 

But he’s a man of science, and knows that their time together is finite, and anything more than that is just a dream. 

Nick is possibly the most special specimen he’s ever studied, the most challenging in his defiance and endurance but also the most rewarding in that, too. He has so much planned for the two of them, and right now, he has to put a stop to the threat that is desperately hovering, figurative hat in hand, before he starts to get a little _too_ antsy and starts snooping around. 

Greg lingers at the door to the fridge, watching Nick’s feet twitch, wondering, _hoping_ that he was still calling out for him. He’s still trying to foster a need for dependency, otherwise he won’t be able to keep him. Nick is a survivor, and quite possibly a lone one at that. He doesn’t seem to need anybody’s help but his own to persist when hellfire rains down and drowns him, sinking and shrinking him and dragging him down to the core of the earth itself. 

Except maybe he needs this stranger who has come calling, because everybody in the business knows that you don’t come to Greg Sanders’ laboratory unannounced if you expect to walk out of it in one piece, and it’s far too late at night for any researchers or interns or others in his employ to come to work.

His assumption on who this caller could be in relation to Nick is further supported by the seemingly hidden flashers embedded in the top of the stranger’s Denali parked in front of the lab, and the air of authority he carried when he sauntered through into the lobby. 

He taps his fingers on the fridge door, biting his lower lip, debating if he should even indulge in curiosity, or neutralize the threat head on. If this is truly a call to Nick’s aid--which he briefly wonders how it was even made, given that he destroyed Nick’s cell phone--Nick certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if he laid a finger on his friend, and Greg certainly doesn’t want to have to put an end to this if he doesn’t have to. 

So he weighs his options, comes up with a plan. His fingers slide down the glass door with a malicious smile because even if the stranger gets this far, he certainly wouldn’t be able to get any sort of wind of his experiment. 

He straightens his lab coat, and briskly walks through the halls to the reception counter. He clears his throat to announce his presence, the man--a dark skinned man, a short afro and open dress shirt intimidating him with a level of “cool” that Greg could only aspire for, stops peering over the top of the counter, and leans on it instead with casualty. 

“Dr. Sanders?” 

A sense of déjà vu washes over him, shivers him to his core, and suddenly a flurry of anxiety spreads through his bloodstream sourcing from his racing heart.

“At your service. What can I do for you--” Greg’s eyes flicker down, spotting the badge clipped to the man’s hip, and the firearm attached to the other side. “--Detective?”

“Detective Brown. I’m looking for a--” the Detective catches the word, closing his eyes and resetting with a tilt in his head. His eyelids seem to have a droop, exhaustion sagging into the dark purple bags that his eyes rest on. “Colleague of mine. Nick Stokes. Last anybody heard, he was paying you a visit for a consultation on a case he’s-- _we’re_ working on.”

“Detective Stokes, ah, yes. He paid me a visit the other day, at my home residence...so what brings you to my workplace?” 

“I found one of your cards on Nick’s desk,” Detective Brown pulls out the card, extending it towards Greg. “Just lists this address. I know it’s late, but would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Anything. Shoot,” Greg releases the tension as much as he can in his body to hide his shaking nerves, mirrors Warrick’s lean against the counter, his fingers dancing and spiking up his hair and his pride along with it.

“When did he meet with you?”

“About...two nights ago, now? Sorry, I’m a little hazy on details, my attention has been driven to a very special...project of mine.”

“What did he want to talk to you about?”

“You know, funny thing, we didn’t talk much shop at all--the poor guy, had a little accident with a coffee spill and he took off, saying he would come back at a later time, but I think he mentioned something about the mob--I wrote a book on Vegas history once, so I can understand why he came to me--”

“‘Sin City Secrets,’” Detective Brown smiles wearily with a wagging finger at Greg. “Yeah, yeah I recognize your name now.” 

Greg smiles back, perhaps this would be easier than he thought, this detective is just as disarmed as Nick had been…

“But as I said, we didn’t get talking much about it, he left my apartment soon after.” 

“Did he make any mention about why he took off in such a hurry? I mean, a spilled coffee cup wouldn’t stop this guy--hell, a bulldozer of cement wouldn’t stop him.”

“No, I’m afraid he didn’t,” Greg watches as the man’s small smile falls, and the walls are put up again. He starts to twist his fingers in his hands, make himself look as innocent as he can. Make his questions seem more curious than interrogative. “Is there any reason you think something may have happened?”

“I’m the one asking the questions here,” the detective hisses, suddenly straightening himself and moving closer, practically towering over Greg. Greg shifts back, nearly falling before Detective Brown ducks his head in a shaking motion, rubbing his forehead temples with his thumb and forefinger. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have talked like that.” 

“It’s...okay,” Greg tries to comfort him as he begins to pace. “You seem to care about Detective Stokes a lot, I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance…”

“Could you...Can I just...take a look around?”

“If you think it will help, but again, Detective Stokes had called on me in my apartment, I don’t know what use looking around the labs would--” Greg begins to ramble, but once given permission, Detective Brown starts to head down the same hallway Greg emerged from moments before.

“Do you know how Nick may have gotten your home address?” Detective Brown cuts him off as he starts peering into the windows of the various labs. 

“Well, he mentioned a mutual friend of ours, Gil Grissom.”

“Griss...yeah, I know him. Bug guy, crime lab supervisor. How do you know him?” 

“Attended a few of his lectures...I almost worked at the crime lab for a short period, under his supervision.”

Detective Brown nods silently, and seems to allow a silence to fall between them for a few seconds as they continue down the hallway, closer to the door at the end…

“What sort of work do you do here? Been a while since I’ve been in the coat, but I recognize different pieces from all sorts of fields.”

“I do some freelance...micro testing, analytical testing, genetics and behavior studies...I always had an interest in DNA, but I kind of dabble in everything, I guess. For a short time, I was interested in the field of forensics, and Grissom himself even said to me, ‘if you want to master forensics, you have to master everything else first.’” 

“Sounds like something the old man would say,” Detective Brown scoffs. He lifts his head from his peeking into the second to last door on the left, before directing his attention to the door at the end of the hallway, different from all the rest--the lights are dimmer on the inside, there’s a rubber stopper at the bottom of the door preventing any light from getting in.

And there’s a certain test subject literally chilling in the refrigerator. 

“I’ve also created this space as a way for biologists, chemists, engineers of all sorts of fields to collaborate together, research together, an opportunity to connect and grow--Oh, that’s my... _private_ laboratory--” Greg tries to cut Detective Brown off before he enters the room, but too late, the man seems to hold no regard for Greg’s privacy and what can Greg do to stop him, at this point…

Other than perhaps reach for the nearest beaker and splash it on Detective Brown and see what happens.

But so far he doesn’t seem suspicious of anything.

Yet.

Greg still picks up a syringe, filled with truth serum...or with cyanide. He really needs to re-label his chemicals. He presses a hand onto the man’s shoulder--“Here, let me get that for you,” he says as he then reaches for the light, before surreptitiously sticking the man with the smallest, gentlest dose of the drug he could, and the sudden burst of flickering fluorescent light seems to be enough to distract him from the prick of pain--his fingers do rub the spot, but he doesn’t question it, possibly just presumes it to be a mosquito bite.

The room is flooded with light, though it’s unstable. He had not yet gotten around to replacing a few of the light bulbs, and had grown accustomed to the dark, brooding atmosphere with the glows of his equipment and neon fluid solutions, but he wonders how Nick would have reacted to the sudden light--he seemed to elicit some sort of muscle memory when the flashlight was shone on him during his time in the so called “test tube” that indicated some sort of...prior conditioning. 

He watches as the new detective does a circle around the room, hoping that he’ll exit the loop just as soon as he had entered without noticing the signs that are probably invisible to him, but clear as day to Greg.

The bulletin board on the wall that he had enlarged then shrunk again with Nick attached is the first thing he walks by, and Greg has to hold back a smile at the memory of watching Nick writhe under the pins, slipping into unconsciousness as his body compressed down--he meant to ask Nick what it had felt like before he had fallen asleep, for his notes.

He supposes he can always do it again later, after Nick’s returned to an...almost normal. 

Detective Brown passes the hyperbaric chamber. Their first date. He remembers how under the influence of a chemical that lowers inhibitions to almost non-existence, revealing the true heart within. 

He had been prepared to just bury the life he had intended to snuff out, but that first encounter made quite an impression on the scientist in more ways than one. 

“Didn’t imagine you as a punk rocker,” Detective Brown frowns as he lifts up a few CDs stacked by the stereo in the back of the room. “Or...a player,” he adds, lifting up a few of his more...risque magazines that had been slipped under a scientific journal.

“We all have our vices, don’t we? What’s yours?” 

“Gambling.” 

Detective Brown pauses with a furrowed scowl on his face, before he resumes his lap around the corner, approaching closer to the refrigerator.

Greg, who had been following behind him slowly so as to not indicate that he was hovering over the inquisitor, picks up his pace as precaution, with good reason as the detective bends slightly to get a closer look at its contents.

“Again, it’s uhm, been a while since I’ve been in a lab, and forgive me if I’m out of place here, but shouldn’t that petri dish be agar side up?” he asks in a loud voice.

Loud enough for anyone to hear. 

Even someone who’s ears might be flooded with gelatin. 

_Fuck. He’s gonna throw a fit._

“Silly me, of course, you’re absolutely right--” Greg sighs in true frustration, and he’s grateful when the detective steps to the side, and then away once and for all, continuing his examination as Greg reaches into the refrigerator.

At first he thinks about flipping Nick over, but then decides that perhaps it’s best if he keeps him close to his chest, at first literally when he hugs the container close to his heart as he turns around to shield him from his detective friend. He pulls the plate up to get a look at Nick’s face--pale and almost turning blue from the cold, eyes wide, his lips daring to cry out but seem to tremble instead--it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, the way the little man’s teeth chatter together from just mere minutes in the refrigerator. 

He suppresses a giggle, and presses his lips to the dish before he slides it into his back pocket behind his lab coat, satisfied that Nick is still incapacitated for the time being. He turns back around after nearly haven forgotten about his visitor, who’s now leaning on a counter with his hands in his pocket, taking in the entire room from another view. 

“Impressive,” the man admits, pulling his hands up and folding his arms. “A little weird, sure, but very impressive stuff you got here, Doc.” 

“Why, thank you, Detective,” he smiles proudly. He hooks his foot into a nearby chair, settles into it, though without putting too much pressure on his rear--he wouldn’t want to crush Nick, he’s got test dummies for that. 

“Part of me wishes that I would have chosen the microscope over the badge,” the detective sighs. Greg’s smile gets even wider, the drug is in full effect, all sense of authoritative bravado is gone. 

The heart is revealed. 

“What made you choose the badge?” he asks eagerly.

“My grandma, you know, she always instilled this...sense of right and wrong in me, and there was a lot of activity in my hood growing up, and I saw some things that weren’t...right. And I wanted to stop them. And stop the men who thought they were doing right from doing wrong, and I figured one of the ways to do that was to become a servant to the blind lady--”

Greg’s smile fades, he hears a gentle, muffled _snap!_ travel from his pocket to his ear, and fortunately the detective doesn’t seem to notice. Greg reaches his hand behind him, feigning a scratch as he feels for the petri dish--fully closed and he curses silently to himself that he can’t just take it out and look at it. He pries it apart, sticks a finger in, expecting to poke into Nick’s head--or his feet, he can’t remember which direction he had stuck Nick down his pants, but instead feels nothing at all, besides the gelatin. 

“--science was always so interesting to me as a kid, though, my nose was always in a book. Worked my ass off driving as a cabbie around the city to raise money to get to college--”

Greg’s attention to the drugged, rambling detective telling his life story wanes as he feels an almost...tickle down his thigh. His fingers race to catch the sensation--his fingernail scrapes against something that’s larger than just a bug, but he’s unable to grab onto it as it passes the crevice of his pants underneath his knee. Any longer spent chasing him can attract attention, and more than that, Nick might already do that if he’s able to get around to the front of his legs…

He grabs onto his pants and shakes him off, his eyes straining to look down, but Detective Brown’s made eye contact with him now, pulling him back into the one-sided conversation.

“--But Grissom, he...he helped me out of that...dark, obsessive place, set me straight and though I’ve been known to get some...tendencies here and there...I got him, a-and Nicky, too. Those guys mean the world to me--”

Greg nods in feigned understanding, his nostrils wide and flaring as he risks a look down to the floor, long enough to get an idea of where Nick might be, but short enough to not entice Detective Brown to look down, too. 

He finds Nick getting to his feet after his fall, waving his hands in the air, jumping up and down--his voice just barely even reaches Greg’s ears, there’s no way it’s reaching his friend’s.

He still swats Nick away with a kick of his shoe--and in an even riskier move, kicking him _towards_ his giant friend, who shuffles as Greg rises to his feet, gesturing for them to take their leave of the room. He looks down as Warrick turns away, to find Nick running away from his own friend out of fear of being accidentally stepped on. 

_Serves you right, you little shit._

“--Nick got me out of that mess and while I may be pretty upset with the guy right now, I know that his heart is still in the right place. I shouldn’t have yelled at him. Though his big Texan mouth--” _Not so big right now, I assure you._ “--should have kept shut and he shouldn’t have gone sticking his nose in places it don’t belong.”

“You got that right…” Greg mutters as he crouches down, pretending as if he were going to tie his shoe as he is really reaching for the little devil himself, but he sprints away, in the opposite direction, getting closer to a hiding spot underneath the island bench in the center of the room, and he’s starting to run out of excuses to continue looking down. 

In a split second decision, Greg grabs onto the counter for support as he rises up, and purposely knocks over a lab beaker in the process. 

“Oh, shit, man! You okay?” Detective Brown gasps with exaggerated fashion.

The glass shattered, narrowly missing Nick before he dove under the table, but a few pieces followed him--he notices a tiny smear of blood seep into the crevices of the lab tile. 

“I’m fine,” Greg holds up a hand. “Allow me--”

“Nah, here, bro, I got it--” Detective Brown rushes to grab the broom and dustpan. He crouches down and starts to sweep up the glass, with Greg taking the chance to look for Nick. He finds him lying face up, his head tilted back to look at the scientist, his limbs surrounded in shards of glass. One piece even sticks into his leg, and Greg almost smiles; he won’t be getting far if he manages to get to his feet. He watches the little man stir, lifting his head hazily, bobbing in a heavy pant of exhaustion. 

Defeated. 

Greg grabs the detective’s wrist before he starts to sweep under the table. 

“Allow me, Detective. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, especially with how...distracted you are, what with worrying over Nick and all,” Greg loudly insists. “Wouldn’t do you much good to have a trip to the hospital instead of searching for your friend…”

“You’re right,” Detective Brown gives in, and rises to his full height, right before Greg swipes underneath the table in one long motion. He can just see the top of Nick’s head stuck in the bristles as he shoves him into the lidded dustpan, closing him in as he leans it against the nearby wall to tend to the still loopy detective staggering towards the door. 

“Why don’t we get you some water,” Greg offers, pressing a supportive hand onto the man’s back. 

“Water would be nice. Thirsty from all this talking. I don’t know why, I just...let it all out…” Detective Brown mutters, holding his palm to his forehead. 

“Well, I hope it helped, I’m sorry I couldn’t offer much more than a shoulder to cry on,” Greg smiles awkwardly. He guides the man out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

He walks the detective out after they conclude their walkthrough with a stop in the cafeteria. They make small talk, the previously stoic detective having become a chatterbox of all topics, but the chatter fades as he re-hydrates. The small dose is wearing off. Greg bids him farewell with the promise that he can use Greg’s services in any capacity, and that if he hears from Nick, he would be the first to know. 

He doesn’t even wait until Warrick is out of the lobby before rushing back to his sanctuary with the giddiness of freedom, completely off the hook and free to _play._

He goes back to the dustpan, a taunt teasing his tongue out between his lips as he can already imagine his diminutive captive still recovering from his latest escape attempt--which have grown more frequent, a development into a genuine concern that he would have to put an end to such a behavior.

A concern which evolves into panic when he finds nothing in the dustpan other than broken, bloodied glass.


	6. Magnifying Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warrick reflects on the fight that split him and Nick up, and examines the evidence he was able to snatch from Dr. Sanders' lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me, trying to slip a bit of plot into this absolutely absurd AU

A near decade in partnership is guaranteed to be peppered with at least one disagreement (though there have been quite many more than that) between the two parties, no matter how big or small.

And in hindsight, this particular bout seems so small in comparison to the big problem of Nick’s sudden disappearance. 

Their more intense disputes were usually over affairs of the heart. One or both of them blinded by some unattainable beauty and convinced that the other  _ just doesn’t see it.  _

Lounge singers. Redheads. Strawberry blonde dancers. Nurses--Nick especially fell hard for the nurses, given how often he was at the hospital for either work or personal reasons, though Warrick also had his own brief falling for one of his own. 

It was never a jealousy thing, just more of a concern for the other’s safety. Seeing the red flags before the other man ran into them head on. Ignoring the facade of pleasure that the women used to lure them in before they took advantage of him. 

But when it came to Kristy Hopkins, oh, Warrick saw it. Saw the way she had Nick wrapped around her finger, getting her out of tight spots and keeping her on the streets that she pranced around like she owned them--and to a point, she did. Rose through the ranks and went from being a piece of merchandise to being the seller, after her “boss” was found dead, strangled and Nick had even been thought of as the top suspect for a brief time, before Warrick was able to acquit him.

To this day, he stills thinks Kristy was involved in the man’s murder, but she played coy the whole time. Played the victim. Said that Nick was her knight in shining armor and if he had done it--which she both led them to believe and pulled them away from the thought at the same time--that he would have been doing her a great service. 

And even after all of that, Nick  _ still  _ found himself answering the siren’s call, and he was most certainly under her spell.

Even after death.

Warrick hated to admit it, but he had also recognized the address as her usual haunting ground. He knew when they rolled up to the scene that he should have left Nick behind. Should have told him to take a few days. Work on some other cases. 

But he would just  _ not let go.  _

Warrick even had to pick him up as he crouched next to her body, just staring. Immobile. The man was already counting the spare change in his wallet, he was going to pay for the funeral, Warrick knew that the minute he saw the toe tag. 

“Nick, c’mon man. There’s nothing we can do. It was a hit and run, we don’t need to be here.”

Nick shook his head. 

“No. No, Rick, she’s smarter than that. She would have seen it coming.”

“She wasn’t invincible, Nick. She was only human,” Warrick affirmed, though silently added  _ arguably  _ to himself. “And so are you. Go on, get outta here. You haven’t slept a wink in a week.”

Warrick gently pushed him towards the car. Signed the papers. Wrote the death off. Released the body. He brought Nick home, much to his disgruntlement, and thought about what excuse he’d use to cover him when he didn’t come to work the following Monday, knowing the poor guy would be slumping in grief. 

Which is why he was surprised to find him at the office, standing in front of a murder board for something that was just an  _ accident,  _ but was turning into an obsession.

“It was a mob hit,” Nick announced before he even made eye contact with his partner. 

“Jesus, Nick--” Warrick groaned, and Nick spun around, a crazed look in his eyes. 

“Hear me out, Warrick!” Nick threw up his hand, and Warrick reluctantly succumbed, holding his protests in the back of his throat as he sank against the desk behind him. “Look at the patterns on her skin, this car didn’t hit her at full speed--it was accelerating, sure, but it had previously stopped before that.”

“Could have been a client coming to her with a complaint, then, but where does the friggin’ mob come in?” Warrick sighed. 

“Her previous boyfriend,” Nick sneered with distaste as he pointed to the late man’s mugshot clipped to the board. “Turns out he had ties to Lou Gedda, and maybe...she did too…”

Nick walked towards Warrick, his heart panged as he saw just how  _ tired  _ Nick was. Bags under his eyes. Hair unkempt. Empty cups of coffee littered all over his desk as he shuffled through papers and files and even a book of old Vegas history before he shoved a picture in Warrick’s face, three men sitting at a booth, having cigars and drinks and their arms wrapped around each other, and a collection of beautiful women adorned in flashy headdresses. 

He didn’t recognize any of the ladies, except for Kristy, but was able to put a name to each of the men’s faces. Jack Willman, the pimp. Sam Braun, the owner. 

And Lou Gedda, the head of the serpent that wrapped itself around the city, taking care of its citizens and, well,  _ taking care  _ of the ones that interfered. 

“Nick, this is a bit of a stretch.”

“How?!” Nick almost shouted in an exasperated sigh. Warrick pulled a face, conducting Nick with his own hand to urge him to calm down as he slammed down on the desk with the palm of his hand. 

“Listen, I know you liked her, okay. I get it. She seemed like she made you happy--” 

Nick pulled his head up, his nostrils wide and flaring but his eyes screaming the tragedy of a broken heart, silently warning Warrick to keep this wound closed. 

“But this...listen, bad things just...happen--” Warrick lowered his voice, gently putting a hand against Nick’s shoulder, but Nick shrugged it off. 

“It’s...It’s not only that, I think there’s something going on. Here.”

“That’s an even bigger stretch, dawg, are you sure about this?”

“Positive.”

Warrick looked around, watching their colleagues in uniform go about their daily business, searching for any prying eyes looking in places they shouldn’t be, honing on previously filtered whispers of what he always assumed to just be workplace gossip, but if Nick was paranoid, he wouldn’t be without good reason. 

Still, he had to play devil’s advocate, make sure the paranoia wasn’t just a manifestation of his grief. 

“Your evidence?” 

“Blood found on Kris--on the  _ victim’s  _ body. That wasn’t hers.” 

Warrick furrowed his eyebrows. 

“How much blood?”

“Not much, but enough to run a sample. Matches the unknowns on the Mullins hit last summer, you remember that? Remember how we got orders from above on that, to ‘back-off?’”

He remembered. Remembered Nick’s anger more than anything, twitching eyes and thin lips and a rage that was unmatched, until now. Feelings of betrayal as they worked their asses off, just to be told to walk away.

So no wonder Nick was all worked up over this. He could hear the echoes of a weary Jim Brass, half asleep, telling him to put a cork in it and leave it on the shelf. 

“And-and not just the blood, but according to CSI, it looked like someone tried to  _ clean it.”  _

“Okay, but how does that connect to the inside?” 

“The arriving officer on the scene took the first picture, here--”

Nick pulled down the picture of the fallen angel, allowed Warrick to study it for a moment while he pulled down another one.

“And here was the last picture taken before the body was removed--”

He could just barely see the tip of Nick’s shoes crouching a few centimeters from the poised body.

“Spot the difference,” Nick crossed his arms, his tongue poking out, waiting for Warrick to see what he saw--which took a few more moments, and Warrick was ready to give up when, yes, he saw it. 

“Someone tried wiping the blood off her neck,” Warrick observed, and his eyes widened after a tight squint. “And...are those ligature marks?”

“Yup,” Nick’s lips popped. “Someone was trying to cover something up. On the scene.”

“How could they get away with that, though?” Warrick shook his head in disbelief. 

“Once the death was ruled accidental, people start to filter out. Get distracted, busy in their own clean up of the scene, dispersing the crowd, putting evidence away...Leaving the scene,” he added with a trace of bitterness in his voice, stirring up guilt in Warrick and in himself, too. 

“Nick, listen...I’m with you, but we gotta...we gotta tread carefully man, if you’re right--”

“I am right!” Nick raised his voice, pointing into his chest. “And hey, I know how you felt about Kristy...I know she wasn’t...She was more like the wicked witch of the west than the exalted savior of the yellow brick road in your eyes, but she did a lot for those streets, was just trying to keep them as safe as she could--”

“I grew up on those streets,” Warrick huffed. “And man, the war you wanna start with this, you gotta realize the other side’s got a whole army just ready to attack--”

“That’s why I need you.”

“For what? You want me to go back to my roots? Go back to the old neighborhood, cup in hand, asking for tips?” Warrick chuckled humorlessly.

“Warrick, I didn’t mean it like that--”

“You don’t know what you mean,” Warrick growled, standing up in his full height and looming over Nick. “I barely got out by the skin of my teeth.”

Nick didn’t back down. Tried to stand up even straighter than Warrick, tilted his head up though Warrick knew his heart was weighing him down. 

“I know what I’m asking you,” Nick assured him, but Warrick felt the urge to just slap his partner upside the head, hoping it would set his scrambled brain straight. The heart of gold was starting to rust. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the understanding, empathetic, Nick Stokes he considers to be his friend asking for help.

This was a stupid, stubborn, selfish man running head first into a sea of red flags, not caring who got hurt along the way, including himself. 

“And I’m not asking you, Nick, to  _ drop it,”  _ Warrick warned him, hating that he knew what these words would do to their friendship, hoping it was a temporary burn but knowing the scar would be there forever. __

“I ain’t your fucking dog, man,” Nick snarled, before brushing into Warrick roughly and whipping his coat off of his chair. 

As far as last words go, they could have done better.

And those words continue to run through his head, the conversation continues to play out differently, with him being more supportive. With him being more assertive. With an alternate ending where Nick didn’t walk out only to never return. 

Wherever he is right now, Warrick should be with him. 

But he’s beating himself up more over the fact that it took him this long to realize he was missing. Damn near a week where he hadn’t seen Nick at the office, hadn’t returned his calls and he thought Nick was just avoiding him, as he always does after they have their little spats, but he knew, he  _ hoped  _ that Nick would show up at his side at their usual spot Friday night after work, after they closed their case of the week that they somehow worked together but separately. 

He was planning on apologizing by truly offering his help on this Hopkins mystery, but only so long as neither of them would do anything stupid. He was planning on calling him if he didn’t actually show.

He wasn’t planning on Nick ghosting him in both of those scenarios. 

He went to Nick’s house, let himself in with the key that he still had--the true sign that Nick was still his friend, otherwise he would have asked for it back, the man takes his security very seriously. 

The house was empty, so he went back to the office, wondering if Nick would still be entranced by the murder board.

Only to find the board dismantled.

His desk was cleaned up, the only remaining evidence being that of the old Vegas history book-- _ Sin City Secrets _ , with a card and an address written on the back of it, he recognized it as Gil Grissom’s handwriting. Grissom said he had just spoken to Nick two days ago, and gave him the referral of Dr. Greg Sanders for help with his blood mystery. 

“Is...everything okay?” the elder man asked. Warrick wishes he had an answer. 

Just as he wishes he had an answer for whatever the fuck just happened in that goddamn laboratory.

He pushes himself out through the revolving door, into the refreshing night air. He turns around, sees that the scientist had already excused himself from the lobby. 

His head is pounding, his eyes pulsing with blurring focus. As far as interviews go, this would be known as one of his weirdest. As if he had been talking to a friend after a few beers rather than a sober conscience and filter on his personal life. Why did he tell Greg so much about himself?

And why does he think that he  _ smelled  _ Nick inside the lab?

Not that Nick has any sort of distinctive smell, perhaps it was just a sense he’s gotten attuned to after working so closely with the man, after years spent shooting the breeze and shooting hoops. The almost married instinct of knowing when your partner is in the house, even if they’re not in the same bed. 

It’s the same instinct that told him to distract the scientist, and nab the piece of purple rubber left out on the counter. While the scientist’s laboratory was a hodge-podge of miscellaneous mis-belongings in a laboratory setting, such as the porn and punk CDs, it was the perfectly cut piece of what he feels is latex that was most out of place of all. 

He pulls it out once he settles in his car, the shape is reminiscent of a small t-shirt, almost, and though the scientist had spoken about the variety of fields of research they conduct in his business, he said nothing about clothing or latex…

Or human experimentation. 

It’s as big of a stretch as Nick had taken, perhaps a trick of his longing heart overtaking his brain, but the same smell that he thought was Nick, tingles his nostrils from the piece of latex. 

He puts it in a small evidence bag and he’s just about to call in a favor from a friend when he hears a gentle knocking on his window. He feels goosebumps rise at the back of his neck as he lowers the volume in his car. His fingers fall to the gun clipped to his waist, balling up the evidence bag in a fist as he turns to the window to see the danger lurking in the shadows of the night.

Normally he’d be disarmed by the sight of Dr. Sanders, with a sheepish grin and a bead of sweat on his forehead. 

But a small voice tells him to keep his guard up. 

“Detective, my apologies, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to conduct a search before you depart,” the professionalism in his voice is strained, forced, not as natural or casual as his speech before, adding in to his rising suspicion of the man.

“What, did one of your experiments get loose?” Warrick scoffs, but he gets out of the car nonetheless, watching the other man shrink down a little as he towers over him with an air of intimidation, overcompensating for his previously...vulnerable state. He keeps his hand hovering over his weapon, but slides the evidence into his pocket and with it, the fear that was the subject of Dr. Sanders impromptu search.

“No,” Dr. Sanders chuckles nervously. “No, all of my specimens are all contained, it’s, uhm...It’s one of our technicians, Henry Andrews, I just realized the door to his lab wasn’t all the way closed when we conducted our tour, and he does a lot with toxic waste, and I want to make sure there’s not a trace of it on you.”

The scientist pulls out a flashlight and lowers himself to a crouch, beginning his examination with Warrick’s shoes. Innocent enough, and Warrick himself even begins to worry that he may have stepped in something he shouldn’t have.

“Lift your shoe, please?” Dr. Sanders asks tightly.

Warrick obliges, and he senses a wave of relief wash over the man, and himself as Dr. Sanders bows his head down with a small smile.

But the relief washes away as Dr. Sanders then pans up the rest of his body, going so far as to dare to search his jacket. 

“What, you think this waste is sentient or somethin’? I don’t got anything in my pockets,” Warrick deflects, straightening the flaps of his coat and effectively swatting Dr. Sander’s prying hands out of the way. 

“Just being thorough. Again, my apologies, Detective. Good night.” 

Dr. Sanders shuffles off without another word, though he notices that his attitude seems to have shifted to a more...aggressive one. His shoulders hunch, his fists clench. 

Warrick keeps his gaze on him until he leaves his field of vision. He pulls out his phone and dials the first number he can think of as the night begins to fade, and the sun rises behind the now ominous building in front of him, calling to him, telling him that he should dig deeper.

“Gris, hey, it’s me...you wanna grab an early breakfast?”

The ride to the diner is spent thinking the worst, that he had just sealed Nick’s tomb, if he really was somewhere in that laboratory. But where could he have been? While they didn’t necessarily go into every room, Warrick had a wide enough scope to see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the scientist’s erratically evolving behavior.

He itches his neck, feeling the release of a hardened piece of skin that wasn’t there before. He risks a glance at his finger as he pulls it in front of him. A drop of blood oozed its way out and smeared on his skin, and while sure, it could just be a mosquito bite, the question running through his mind does line up with the rest of his doubts of the man’s innocence.

Did Dr. Sanders  _ drug  _ him?

He’s the first to arrive at Frank’s, asks for the most private booth socked away in the corner and a cup of coffee. He stares into it, replaying the conversation he held with the scientist that was really more one sided than he intended--and on his own behalf, at that. 

But if the drug was a small enough dose, it would have left his system already, a regret solidified with the memory of his trip to the bathroom before he departed. The splash of water on his face. The sobering shiver he had when he walked out of the lab’s doors.

The only evidence he really has is the latex, and when he pulls it out of his pocket to show his mentor and friend, he realizes that he’s stretching into a realm of the unreal that would certainly not fly in court.

“I was hoping you could run it for epithelials, I think Nick may have come in contact with it,” Warrick explains as Grissom pulls out his pocket magnifying glass, the entomologist’s ultimate companion.

“Even then, you know it won’t be admissible in court,” Grissom warns him. 

“Yeah, but you think it could be enough to get a warrant?”

“Did he give you consent to search?”

“He walked me in, but didn’t know I snatched this,” Warrick sighs, and Grissom’s eyes fall into the looking glass as his lips pucker with disappointment. “I know, I wasn’t thinking, well...not thinking of that, just thinking of…”

“Nick.” 

“Yeah,” Warrick bows into a nod. 

“No, Nick...may have been in contact with this after all,” Grissom mutters, pulling the latex closer, before he hands it to Warrick along with the tool. “He wears a watch on his wrist, right?”

“Usually, yeah,” Warrick shrugs.

“Look at those two marks at the top--could be an imprint from the ridges underneath?” Grissom proposes, but Warrick sees something different.

Warrick sees the indents of a pair of nipples, above the imprinted pattern of what appears to be a pack of abs.

“Or a chest…” Warrick breathes. 

“A...what?”

“It looks like a chest,” he gulps, knowing Grissom’s looking at him like he has five heads, but could explain why Greg was so interested in the bottom of his shoes. “You remember...Natalie Davis?”

Grissom stiffens, a sharp inhale through his nostrils.

“She’s locked up.”

“I know, but...look at this, it...it looks like someone painted over a...a doll’s chest or something, and peeled it off--isn’t that a thing nowadays, liquid latex?”

He knows Grissom is the last person to ask about that.

“Where does Nick play into it then?” Grissom rebukes.

“I don’t know. That lab...That lab was pretty trippy, man. Anything could have...He could have...Like something out of a movie...” Warrick hands the evidence back to Grissom before rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Maybe I’m just tired or something, not thinking right…”

Grissom continues to study the latex in a few moment’s silence, and then departs from the diner without another word. Warrick leaves shortly after, falling into auto pilot for the rest of the day as he tries to untangle the web in his brain. As he restlessly tosses and turns in his bed, he convinces himself that he’s already asleep, haunted with visions of small, purple rubber coated Nicks crawling up his legs, barking like dogs. He just tells himself that he’s in some delusional dreamland and that soon he’ll wake up and start over, this time with more caution when he visits Dr. Sanders’ lab, before Grissom grounds him back down in reality with four words he wouldn’t have expected even in his wildest dreams.

“You might be right,” Grissom announces in a call as Warrick settles into his desk at the start of his shift. “Results on the latex came back. It’s a match to Nick.”


	7. Bunsen Burner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick's perspective on his escape from the petri dish, and his night spent at Greg's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12percentplan and deltajackdalton helped me out a bit with the brainstorming and ideas (like the Crown Royal bit) on this one, I love you both 💜💜

He didn’t think Greg was _actually_ going to do it. 

Nick foolishly thought the scientist was just being cheeky, would relish his embarrassment and just _pretend_ to put the plate in the refrigerator because it’s such an absurd idea--as if his shrunken predicament wasn’t absurd enough.

But not only did the mad scientist put him in a refrigerator, he buried him under a stack of dishes to diminish any chance of escape to a chance as small as he is. 

It doesn’t stop him from trying, pushing up against the lid with all the effort in his body he can muster. Every muscle strained, even his lips pucker as he keeps a release in his body, but when he’s forced to burst out, his breathing is haggard and his body fails him, giving up the fight as the plate starts to condensate above him from the sudden chill. It drips onto his sweating skin, he tries to pull a hand up to wipe his face but his elbows sink into the cementing agar and he’s left in a blinding, wet, sticky discomfort. 

His body may be literally frozen in the gel, but it doesn’t stop every blood cell and bone from shaking. He can feel the color fade from his skin, his teeth begin to chatter against each other in effort to generate heat. 

Greg has to come and get him out soon, right?

He has to know that while Nick might be the size of one, he’s not as invincible as a plastic doll might be to these frigid temperatures. He knows hypothermia will take longer to consume him in a simply refrigerated environment, but every second that passes feels like an eternity in itself. 

The claustrophobia, however, doesn’t take nearly as long. The light might be off, but there is a gentle glow of light that emanates from the outer room, making him fully aware of the circular boundary that encapsulates him, that his eyes deceive him into thinking it’s choking inwards. A cascade plastic and gelatin layers loom above, reminding him that there’s no way out, he’s hidden, forgotten--

“Again, it’s uhm, been a while since I’ve been in a lab, and forgive me if I’m out of place here, but shouldn’t that petri dish be agar side up?”

Perhaps it’s another trick of his twisted perception, perhaps he’s slipping so far away that he’s hallucinating, but he swears he can hear Warrick’s voice. 

Renewed with a new sense of hope, he tries to struggle out of the agar, but it’s too cold, too solid. He can do nothing but shiver and twitch and instead focus his energy on yelling out--though he’s certain Warrick wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway--given how close Greg would lean in to listen whenever Nick would talk, so close he could feel the hot, fruity-laced breath from the scientist wash over his skin.

He wouldn’t be so upset if it meant getting a dose of that warmth right now. 

“Silly me, of course, you’re absolutely right--” Greg’s voice overpowers his friends’, and his heart is in a conflict of sinking with the voice, and rising with it. 

He doesn’t quite get the waft of hot breath to accompany the voice, but the scientist seems to summon himself in front of Nick. After sliding the plate from the bottom of the stack, he’s pressed against the man’s chest--he can see the intricacies of the lacy, flowering pattern of his shirt before it fades to black. Before Nick’s eyes can adjust to the new darkness, the world’s worst carnival ride takes another sweeping movement, pulling him backwards and in front of the gleefully terrifying face of the scientist, who seems to take the moment to let Nick’s hopes of Warrick’s presence turn to dread, because what if Greg does the same thing to Warrick as he’s done to Nick?

Or worse?

Seconds later, and he’s face first with puckered lips once again, only this time with a plastic barrier between him and the wet flesh. Though he still winces at the thought...he also desires to rest his head against the warm pillows of Greg’s lips. 

He grimaces back the nausea that rises as he’s quickly lowered down and around, and shoved into a literal pocket of darkness. 

Greg’s back pocket, he surmises, given the tightness of the cloth walls that push against the parts of the plate. It’s offset at first, shifts and gives Nick a flare of fright but then he realizes he can use it to his advantage, especially as the sudden warmth from the body heat radiating through Greg’s buns seems to melt the agar to a more palpable state. He pushes against the walls of his confinement, and with his new angle he finds it’s easier. The slightest slap of fresher, breathable air against the sweating, flat hair against his head gives him a surge of adrenaline to push harder, reach a hand up--get it caught between the lid and the floor of the plate, but he starts to use his legs for added leverage, and soon he’s pulling himself out of the dish, out of the pocket--

He stumbles, fumbling inside the next obstacle of the large white sheet he bats his way through and out of, but he doesn’t stop to bask in the glory of freedom nor pay attention to the voices booming above. Greg is talking to Warrick, he’s distracted, and if Nick can move swiftly and quietly enough, maybe the madman won’t feel the crawling down his leg.

He’s grateful Greg doesn’t wear skinny jeans but the fabric must have been taut enough on Greg’s thigh for him to feel the light tickle of Nick’s fingers--which must seem like ant legs to the giant--stroke up against the large leg, the only stable wall in the hallway he traverses down, with the flapping lab coat daring to slow him down by slapping him and making him lose his balance.

His cautiously slow pace picks up as he feels Greg’s finger swipe against his back--but he misses and Nick dives towards his knee, sliding and grabbing the scrunched fabric of crook in his bent leg and risking a glance backwards to see Greg looking back at him, his nostrils flaring but an otherwise controlled calm tightens his face, Nick almost smiles because he knows that Greg’s not going to risk of drawing attention to his tiny captive, which gives Nick ample opportunity to attempt an escape--though he’s not quite sure what option he’s going to take, he weighs them out as he begins his descent down the pants, which he tries not to think too hard about and instead think of it as a reverse rock climb but when he gets about halfway down, an avalanche of fingers head towards him.

Nick braces himself for the nausea inducing sensation of being plucked up by his captor, but instead the fingers stop at a pinch of fabric Nick had just been holding seconds before. The pants begin to shake, the wall he was climbing crumbles and though he tries to keep his grip, one hand falls away. And then another. 

He pummels to the ground, landing on his back and a spike of pain keeps him immobile for a few seconds, his hands shielding in frozen claws in front of him, he lets out a sharp groan of pain, but as his vision returns to him, the towering titans’ attention is focused on the conversation above.

“...I got him, a-and Nicky, too. Those guys mean the world to me--”

Nick feels a pang in his chest of guilt and hope that perhaps his relationship with Warrick is still repairable. It’s enough to get him to roll over and get to his feet, and though the wind’s been knocked out of him he manages a few weak hops as he desperately cries out--

“WARRICK! I’M DOWN HERE! RICK!” 

But his voice doesn’t reach the giant man who’s still rambling away--Nick doesn’t think he’s ever heard Warrick talk this much, or this fast, or revealed so much of his inner thoughts before. Even after a few beers, he, like Nick, still keeps the thoughts spun by his innermost heart underneath lock and key.

“Please! Just...see me!” Nick cries desperately. 

He thinks of perhaps crawling onto Warrick’s shoe, and then maybe up his pants, up his shirt, somehow reach the man’s ear but the time and energy it would take is daunting. _Too_ daunting, but what other choice does he--

WHAM! Something sharp and hard slaps Nick in the back, sending him propelling forward, face-first in the direction of his friend’s shoe, the sight of which makes him realize Greg must have used his own to kick Nick in front of his friend, but why? Why would he risk--

Warrick’s foot suddenly moves.

_Towards Nick._

“Oh SHIT!” Nick screams, and he rolls himself away and back to his feet. He doesn’t have much time to think, but quickly chooses a direction and starts running. Warrick’s shoes are too large, moving too fast, there’s no way he can grab onto them without risking being stepped on. He starts heading to the crevice of space beneath the counter against the wall, almost crying at the realization that he’s essentially traversing the length of a football field, that in his normal height, would take him literally one step.

“...Nick got me out of that mess and while I may be pretty upset with the guy right now, I know that his heart is still in the right place. I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

Nick’s pace slows down as he listens to Warrick’s words, the quiver of his lips turn from embarrassment to guilt. He glances up at his friend as he continues, “Though his big Texan mouth should have kept shut and he shouldn’t have gone sticking his nose in places it don’t belong.”

He almost stops running as he hangs his head.

Warrick’s right.

It’s his own damn fault that he’s in this mess. 

“You got that right…” Greg’s voice chimes in, and in his distraction, Nick doesn’t realize he’s running head first into Greg’s shoe, and that Greg’s hand is descending towards him, ready to grab him again.

Nick changes directions, starts running in the opposite direction despite the protests from his leg, his spine, his lungs all burning from exhaustion but he can’t give up. He can’t let the scientist win--and who knows what he’ll do to him now, after such a desperate attempt at escape. He’s all but killed Nick at this point, and seems to have had every opportunity to but hasn’t. What does he need Nick for?

His train of thought is cut short by a crash that lands almost right on top of him--he dives away and under the lab’s island counter just in time before it hits him head-on. An explosion of glass shatters his eardrums, leaving him with a ringing hum and an intense stinging in his leg. He spins as he slides into darkness, a literal rag doll as his limbs have finally failed him, and he’s left motionless with his eyes locked on the field that he came from, studying the shards of a lab beaker that must have “fallen” off of the counter.

And one shard in particular that had embedded itself into his thigh, a gush of blood creating a river in the gutter of the tile. As if he weren’t disoriented enough, he starts to get light headed from the blood loss.

“Oh, shit, man! You okay?” Warrick’s voice calls and Nick weakly responds though he _knows_ the question was not for him, but oh god does he wish it was. Wishes Warrick would just happen to spot him in the mess of glass, but even when he was waving and flailing beneath him, he saw that Warrick didn’t seem particularly...focused. Looking but not _seeing._

Greg must have done something to him. 

“I’m fine. Allow me,” a hint of firmness in the otherwise ultra-polite tone from the scientist. 

“Nah, here, bro, I got it--”

Nick’s heart starts to pound against his chest, his eyes widen in fear as he realizes that Warrick is sweeping up the glass. What if he sweeps under the table, what if he’s tossed in the trash--would he suffocate before he could even escape the bag? He tries again to get to his feet, but it’s a lost cause. His head bobs against the tile, his chest rapidly filling and deflating with his anguish of defeat.

He transmits this fear, this helplessness to the large eyes of the scientist who snatches Warrick’s wrist right as the broom’s bristles brush up against the glass that surrounds him.

“Allow me, Detective. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, especially with how... _distracted_ you are--”

_You mean drugged? You drugged his ass, you motherfucking--_

“--what with you worrying over Nick and all. Wouldn’t do you much good to have a trip to the hospital instead of searching for your friend.”

Nick stifles a groaning wail, Warrick’s _so damn close,_ if only he would just look under the counter…

“You’re right,” Warrick resigns, and Nick watches as his leg straightens, he’s standing up and walking away and while he’s glad because at least Greg is aware of his existence, and therefore may feel some responsibility for keeping him under his watch, he’s shocked to find not the long, slender fingers reaching towards him, but the sweeping black bristles of the broom top that stick into him like needles, dragging him out of his pseudo-sanctuary. He tries to shake himself out of the thick layered curtain, but his leg is stuck, and suddenly his back hits a bump and the tile turns into hard plastic, the light from the lab snaps into darkness just as the dustpan he was brushed into is closed, sealing him in another prison but this one has a nightlight, a space on top that wasn’t fully closed, the gap meant for the broomstick to rest but he supposes that Greg wanted to give Nick enough space to breath and recover…

Even though he’s recovering on a bed of _glass_ that pokes into his skin, threatening to break the skin on his back. 

He hears the muffled chatter of his friend and Greg fade away into silence and gets to his feet, thankful he still has his shoes and he tries in futile effort to climb up the wall of the pan but it’s too flat and his fingers do nothing but scratch the surface as his leg screams at him for standing. 

He curses as he reaches down to fully examine his wound, wonders if it’d be best to leave the glass in or take it out. He pulls the large shard that’s bigger than his head out, screaming in the reflection of the glass, reflecting upon three fundamental truths of his current situation at the exact same time.

He had been shrunk. Doesn’t know how, doesn’t even know when, and doesn’t know if it’s _actually_ possible but it happened. He just has to deal with it. The world isn’t going to adapt to his new height, so he’s just gonna have to adapt to it. He’s done his best so far to not think of the now vastly towering objects as they were before, when he could hold them in his hand and definitely tries not to think of how _he_ can be held now. Carried. Overpowered with just one finger. Easily handled, manipulated. How _fragile_ he is in his small stature. It’s a different sort of restraint, losing the control he took for granted when he was full sized in ways as simple as not being able to lift a set of tweezers. To be taped down with the same substance used to hold easily tearable wrapping paper--and how easily he could be torn apart, now. 

He had been injured. He had been suffering ever since the waffle iron hit his forehead, but all of the pain from the previous tortures had subsided or been otherwise nothing more than experiments in humiliation. This, however, was an actual, potentially fatal wound that has already drained a pint of his blood for Grissom to give him some chocolate covered grasshoppers. 

And lastly, he had developed...certain feelings for Greg Sanders. Conflicting feelings. Hating him, hating what he’s done to him, hating that he thinks of Nick nothing more than a subject of his experiments--but also...fascination with him. Intrigue. Wondering what he’s going to do next, knowing that he wouldn’t let actual serious harm come to his precious “specimen.” 

But then why did he throw the beaker down, knowing fully well it could hit Nick?

He doesn’t necessarily feel _safe_ around the man, but he has always had a part of himself that sought out the thrill of being in danger, sailing through the waterless oceans of sky with a parachute and as it so happens, Greg seems to be as good of a chute as any to catch his fall. 

He has two options. He can wait here for Dr. Sanders to return and hope that he plays an actual doctor to his patient instead of treating him like the miniature plaything he had been transformed into. 

Or he could try another escape.

But how?

He can’t climb, but maybe he can drive the wedge further, and pray that the laws of physics are on his side and do the rest. He starts to tackle the wall, the ball and socket of his fist into his hand mirroring the wavering ball and socket of his arm into his shoulder. He tries to think back to his days on the football field, tacking down opponents and fumbling for a touchdown and the thought of such brings him to his own literal touchdown onto the floor, after his efforts do the trick, setting off the domino effect of gravity. 

Glass spills in front of him, taunting with speed and efficiency he can’t muster. He belly-crawls his way out of the dustpan, one arm extended and clutching the end of the hardened plastic. He pulls himself out and up, dragging his limp leg behind him as he starts to walk towards the door on the opposite end of the room--which seems to be _miles_ away, and sealed tight but perhaps he could fit underneath the crevice…

Which seems to be filled with a long strip of black, he notices as he passes around the lab island counter and gets a better view of his goal. It’s at this point he looks back to where he came, wonders if he really picked the best option. Does the lab have a janitor that cleans up at night? What if he comes into the room, sweeps him back up? What will he do once he passes the door, where will he go? Greg’s words replay in his head, _“It’s a big world out there, Detective. I’m certain you wouldn’t want me to let you go like this, would you?”_

Nick hates to admit it, but the scientist does have a point. 

That still isn’t going to stop him from trying.

He gulps as he stares at the blood--his blood dribbling in splotches along the crooked line that he drew on his path leading right to him.

He rips a piece of his pant leg off, ties it around the slice on his leg to stop the blood from leaking, and hopes that the abrupt halt to the blood trail confuses the giant who comes sauntering in the door a few minutes later. 

Nick takes cover under the counter, though Greg doesn’t expect him to have escaped, not yet and in his haste to hide he misses an opportunity to escape through the closing door, though even if he was able to run at full speed, he still would have missed, anyway.

Instead, he sits back and relishes the increasing panic developing in the giant. He can’t quite see the details of his eyes, but can see the tight frown on his face. The fidgeting of his fingers as he pieces together a scenario that Nick would have thought happened himself--one in which he didn’t make it to the dustpan. 

One in which he managed to cling onto Warrick, just as he had actually attempted to do. 

Greg starts to rush out of the room, but not before activating a switch that doesn’t seem to do anything to the lights in the room, though they do start to flicker and fade before bursting in a dizzy strobe that he’ll never get used to, which puzzles Nick to the point of distraction, making him miss his mark once again though once Greg leaves, he still starts towards the door anyway.

He’s out of breath by the time his hand plasters against the door frame. He hunches over, lifting his head as the air beneath him seems thick. Heavy, but so is the air above. His stomach lurches, there’s an odorless tingle in his nostrils and he chalks it up to exhaustion and hunger as he gives a nonverbal pep talk to his hands, to lift up the black rubber of the door flap but even that is too heavy to budge and he collapses with a frustrated cry. 

He sits with his back against the wall, holding his head in his hands as he contemplates waiting for the scientist’s return to try and slip through the door. His head throbs, he closes his eyes giving him momentary reprieve from the strobing lights. The sweat on his skin starts to cool, and he almost feels refreshed if it weren’t for the extra effort he has to take in breathing--more like wheezing, really. After a few deep breaths, he starts to risk glances of the sights of the enlarged room, the skyscrapers teasing the glow of lab equipment and supplies that could help him...if he wasn’t stuck on the floor. 

His eyes continue to scope out the landscape, and land on a shining floor vent in the pulsing light near the wall of tubes that he was once encased in. 

He comes up with a new idea.

The vents might actually be a better escape route, though just as difficult to scale as the dust pan, it would at least be easier to hide. And for all he knows, he’s on the second or third or some higher story in a building he’s never been in before, maybe he’ll be able to drop down into another room, maybe with any luck he’ll find someone to change him back. 

He groans as he gets to his feet, starts a light jog--walking’s too slow, the giant will be back any minute now and he definitely doesn’t have the energy to run. 

When he approaches, he finds that the folds inside are closed. He frowns and falls to his knees, crawling to the wheel to coax the folds to open just enough for him to slip through--

His face heats and scrunches in exertion as he finally manages to pull the rugged metal towards him, he lets out quick puffs of breath but quickly shuts his mouth when he finds out why it took him so much of his strength to operate the mechanism that, at his full height, he’d be able to with the simple tap of his shoe. 

A puff of pressurized air hisses at him as it launches from the vent, sending him backwards and coughing from the tingling sting into every open orifice, poisoning the air circulating through his body.

He tries to crawl back to the door but doesn’t make it far before he collapses onto the ground, with the last thing he sees is a flickering, approaching, shadow of a titan casting into the flooded foggy room. The earth quakes and falls beneath him as he transcends into a dreamscape of an endless maze with no escape, no matter how fast or far he runs, he continues to hit one wall before flying into the next. Meanwhile a thousand eyes stare at him-- _his_ eyes, Greg’s eyes, and Greg’s _fingers_ that are poking and prodding and lifting and twisting and _caressing_ him with strokes and muttered observations of his prized possession, littered with admissions of love. 

But it’s all wishful thinking, as the fingers roll him into a dizzy dark void of unconsciousness.

* * *

The switch is flipped, though the mask remains on. He watches his steps as he scans through the slit of protective plastic over his eyes for the tiny man who most certainly should be taking a nap by now, and discovers him sprawled out next to the vent closest to the door. It’s the one he keeps closed as a safeguard when he turns on the gas, allowing him for a quick exit before the room is flooded in the hazy fog that easily incapacitates his victims.

No, not victims. They’re not _people_ , they don’t deserve that classification. They’re just organisms for his observation.

But Nick is somehow more than that, he realizes as he crouches down, gently pinching his shoulder and lifting him into his palm. His face scrunches beneath the mask as he heads towards the counter that holds the tools to fix his fallen... _friend?_

He’s grown to _care_ for this one. His frustration of the almost disaster of his escape attempt is outweighed with the relief that he found him, safe from the underfoot of himself or the man’s friend, though he’s not quite so happy about the damage done to Nick’s leg--which was his own fault, really. 

The beaker was just meant to slow him down, but it almost killed him. He’d have to find some other way to put an end to Nick’s persisting defiance, or else the cycle of near misses would continue.

He peels off the mask as the indicator in the upper corner of the room beeps, telling him it’s safe to breath without a filter. He then wipes his hand over his face as he balances Nick in the palm of his hand, the uninjured half of his body draping over the edge of his palm, his head resting comfortably between his ungloved fingers. He feels the warming, breathing sensation of movement into the cushion of his hand, and feels it continue to pulse long after Nick is removed. 

He lowers Nick to the counter, this time without tape to keep him down, just the weight of exhaustion and absence of waking. 

He searches the nearby drawer for his pair of magnifying glasses and readies the rest of his supplies to tend to Nick’s leg. He adjusts the dials on the lens until Nick’s face is in full focus. A slight gap between parted lips, his nostrils wide, taking in the air on autopilot. His counts the eyelashes that tickle his heart with their adorable style, as manicured as his thick eyebrows are--Nick seems to take such excellent care of his pristine body down to the smoothly toned chest that he traces down with the tip of his finger, there’s a light layer of purple staining his skin, it’s almost sticky--between the latex and the agar he’ll need a wash soon enough. 

Just as the bloodied legs will--he uses a pair of tweezers to unlatch his belt and gently tug the tattered, blood stained khakis off to get a better look at the large incision on his leg, which looks like nothing more than an intense paper-cut to Greg’s eyes, but knows is the result of a piece of glass stabbing through his skin.

He pulls forward a vial of a healing concoction that he hasn’t quite readied for public consumption just yet, but the drops that he puts onto Nick’s leg proves that the smaller scale is as good as any and the wound closes, the rapid regeneration of his body cells seals away the past and he can continue with the painless present that he hopes Nick appreciates when he wakes up. 

But that won’t be for a while, and a brief prick of guilt is injected into the smaller man’s exposed neck, replenishing his fluids and curing him of any grumbling pangs of hunger so that when he wakes up, he won’t have to waste time in any more caretaking and get back to the true task at hand which...is...well, though he truly doesn’t know what to do next, he does know that the possibilities are now endless, with Warrick thrown off the scent--the only loose end now severed leaving the puppet in Greg’s full control. 

He kisses the pad of his finger and presses it to the small hole from the injection that shrinks away on Nick’s neck, uses another finger to gently ruffle the flattened hair on his head. He then begins to rub his neck and face up and down with two fingers, then massaging the man’s shoulders before traveling down his chest in competing circles. He hears a soft, but unknowing moan from the still sleeping man as he travels lower, his fingers split as his pelvis to travel down his newly recovered legs.

He can’t help but wonder if Nick practices manscaping around the more private regions of his body that he keeps covered with a tight pair of boxer briefs that accentuate the curve of his thighs, which seem to be as wide as Greg’s finger that rests on top of it. 

With any luck, he’ll gain enough of Nick’s trust to let him see for himself, knowing Nick wouldn’t take too kindly to such questions just yet. 

As he reaches his feet, he peels away the shoes and socks that don’t match the rest of this new outfit, or rather, lack of. He hasn’t quite decided when they’ll begin the next phase of experimentation, but in the meantime, perhaps he could use his washing machine to shrink down a few outfits for Nick to try on. 

He almost chokes on a giggle of awe as he watches Nick’s toes flex in the sudden temperature change. 

“Cute toes,” he says to nobody, his fingers pulling away after a gentle tickle of the soles of Nick’s feet and he spreads his hands on either side of Nick, leaning down for an extra-magnified view of the man. He smells the stench of Nick’s labor and his tongue slides out between his lips, but he keeps it hovering above, not wanting to take advantage and instead turns the other cheek, gently lowering on top of the man, feeling the rise and fall of his chest fade to stillness from the increasing pressure that spikes his heart rate when he realizes just how _tired_ he is, himself. 

He should turn in for the night, it’s been quite an eventful one. He lifts his head, peels the glasses away and views Nick with a less intimate discretion, growing as cold as the crude web spun in his head from one question that has many potential answers but only one solution he leaves with. 

_Where do I put him now?_

* * *

He’s brought back to life by the crashing impact of a waterfall engulfing not just his entire face, but his entire body as well. He flails against the pressurized water, trying to pull the stream apart but the flow doesn’t stop, and he can’t retreat any further, lodged in a wall of flesh that begins to squeeze and rub his body with a rough speed and force that competes with the raging water. He manages to use his hands to shield his face, waits until the patter of droplets slide off his eyelids before he opens them though his vision is splashed over with the water that seeps between his fingers. From what he can surmise, he’s cupped in the palm of a furious giant that scrubs his body in the stainless steel basin of a sink with a carelessness that makes Nick feel as if he’s being treated like a dish being washed. 

A glob of soap is even squirted onto his chest, before its massaged into every crevice of his body. He feels the fingers push down into him harder, though he slides easily in and out between them, daring to roll over onto all fours and attempt to crawl away before there’s a flick onto his butt that makes him fall, his head drapes over the giant’s fingers as they wrap around him, pinning his arms to his sides. 

He tries to kick his way out but his feet are pinched together, his legs still rub against each other in the slippery soap suds that tickle the hairs on his legs.

“That’s real annoying, you know,” Greg’s voice warns him as he rinses the soap off of Nick, twisting and turning and lifting each limb, pinching his ankles and wrists. “You keep making things so difficult, I’m trying to do something nice for you, and this is how you behave?”

Manners be damned, Nick still tries to squirm his way out of the hand that tightens its grip on him as the assault of hot water abruptly ends, and he continues a sputtering coughing fit to out the bitter taste of soap and water that remains in his lungs.

“I should just let you drain away,” Greg teases with a half-smirk as he drops Nick to the floor of the sink, he rolls and almost falls into the pit with the immobile blades of a garbage disposal, as if his leg wasn’t damaged enough--

Wait...no it’s not.

As Nick continues to cough and shiver he realizes he’s been stripped down to his underwear, and his leg is as good as it was before.

How long has he been out?

He gets to his feet, his stomach no longer lurching and groaning, he must have somehow been fed, too. With the renewed sense of energy he bounds towards the other half of the sink, climbing on the metal bars of the drying rack which is essentially a jungle gym to him--and leaping to ledge that he climbs himself over, but he has to pause and rest before he can lift his pumping legs. He grips onto the outer perimeter with his fingers, goosebumps rising all over his freezing skin but before he can muster the final push onto the counter, his right ankle is grabbed and he’s flipped over onto a soft hand towel before he’s swaddled within it. 

“Where. Are. My. Pants?” Nick growls, fists pounding down before they’re thrown into his chest by the towel. “What happened to my leg?”

“Would you rather be suffering from extreme blood loss and an open, gaping wound?” Greg sneers back. He leans in, his warm breath is reluctantly soothing as he washes over Nick.

“I told you, I’d take good care of you,” Greg reminds him with a gentle tap of his nose. Nick twists his head away, his arms wrestling against the tight fabric that binds him. Greg smiles as he pulls back, reaching for the jingling chains of the keychain that he hangs above Nick. He reaches into the swaddle, his fingers gently prying the opening around Nick’s neck apart to pull out his wrists and attach them to the shackles one at a time. He lifts Nick out of the swaddle and the towel falls as Nick rises in front of Greg’s face. 

He can see himself dangling in the dark irises of Greg’s eyes, his wrists don’t get as much movement as his legs do, swaying back and forth--he almost kicks Greg’s nose which gets a frown from the giant man though his struggles don’t stop as he’s pushed to arm’s length and carried to another corner of what he starts to recognize as Greg’s apartment.

“I couldn’t risk keeping you in the lab, given your...poorly made choices as of late,” Greg explains to him as he sees the wonder and recognition on Nick’s face. “Figured a night at home might be more pleasant. For both of us.”

 _“Your home,”_ Nick seethes in huffing breath. “Not mine.”

“Hm. Perhaps I can bring your home here, a dollhouse for you to live in,” Greg muses which intensifies Nick’s struggles to the point where he falls into a bit of shocking fear, that he might fall to the bottomless floor as Greg removes his hand from beneath his feet. Greg laughs as he sits down at a desk, setting Nick momentarily inside of an empty coffee mug. He gets to his feet, his cheeks burning with humiliation as the jangle of the chains makes him feel like some sort of pet as he grips the lip of the cup. Greg, meanwhile, was pulling out a bunsen burner and lighter, connecting the tube to a miniaturized gas tank. 

“Lighten up, Nick, it was only a joke,” Greg’s laughter fades as he fidgets with the flint striker, playfully hovering it over Nick’s head as he ducks into the safety of the cup. Greg then lights the bunsen burner and sets the lighter aside as his other hand reaches into the cup to pull Nick up, and set him over the flame. 

“Since you didn’t appreciate the towel…” Greg muses as he rests his chin in the knuckles of his other hand. He holds Nick up with ease, bobbing him up and down over the flame, the water from his “bath” replaced by beads of sweat from fiery heat. “And since you continue to have such a big attitude for such a little guy…”

“Stop this! This is humiliating, j-just change me back--”

“Not until you start _listening_ to me!” Greg spits at him, the drops of saliva that don’t slam into Nick’s face fizzle in the flame below him as he slams his fist onto the desk. He shakes the keychain, Nick kicks his feet up, curling as he’s dropped lower into the flame.

“I will _never_ listen to you, you _freak!”_ Nick screams at him.

“I have had enough of your tantrums,” Greg warns him sternly. “You better calm down or--”

“Or what? You’re not gonna do anything, you already fixed what you broke, you’re not gonna do anything to hurt your ‘precious little specimen--’”

Greg’s lips curl into a malicious smile as he keeps his eyes trained on Nick, his uncoiled fist reaching for a tape dispenser and dragging it towards him. 

“You said it, not me,” Greg points out as he tears off a small strip of tape, which he hangs in the edge of his finger, slapping it across Nick’s face, covering his mouth. “Now, that’s enough of that. We will talk tomorrow after we both get some sleep.”

 _I already got some sleep!_ Nick protests quietly, upset that now he’s brimming with energy now, when he doesn’t necessarily _need_ it, though he swears to himself that he won’t stop fighting. 

“It’s been a long ass day, _no thanks to you...”_ Greg adds as he slides the key ring down his finger and wraps his fingers around Nick. He extinguishes the bunsen burner and rises from his chair, carrying Nick to his bedroom and setting him momentarily on top of his vanity while he prepares for bed, stripping in exaggerated fashion though Nick’s not paying much attention.

Instead, Nick runs to the edge but gets cold feet in his attempt to jump down, knowing he wouldn’t survive if he tried--and knowing Greg would just catch him if he did. He tries to seek shelter between and behind the bottles of lotions and gels and make-up and alcohol that litter the surface, but Greg drags him back with his finger hooking the loop, and then pressing a finger to Nick with the nonverbal command of _stay_ as he continues to search in the small drawers before pulling out a long, looped chain.

Greg plucks him up into the air, attaching the loop of the keychain into one of the loops of the necklace.

“I’m usually not one for jewelry, but seeing all the rings in your house when I was there earlier inspired me to go and get myself a necklace. Or should I say, a _Nick-a-lace.”_

Nick groans beneath the muzzle of adhesive, and then yelps as he’s tossed into the air, and falls against Greg’s chest as Greg drapes the necklace around his neck and falls onto his bed. 

“Now settle down, little Nicky,” Greg coos, stroking a struggling Nick beneath his hand as he presses him against his chest. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.” 

Greg turns off the lamp next to his bed, blows a kiss to Nick as he lifts his head to scowl at the larger man before he falls asleep almost instantly. 

And _snores._

Nick continues to writhe until he digs his hands, which had been pinned behind his back, out from underneath the fleshy blanket of confinement and onto Greg’s chest. Nick claws at the skin, pulling himself out though Greg’s fingers wrap around his shoulders in response, pulling him into a clutch as a short, grunting huff puffs from the giant’s nose. 

“Nick…” the giant whispers in an angry hiss, and Nick settles until the snores return, the hold on his body loosens. 

This time, he’s more gentle. Keeps his movements painstakingly slow, which wouldn’t be so hard if his mouth wasn’t sealed--instead of clawing at Greg’s chest, his hands claw at the tape but realizes that if he rips it off, he’ll make noise and wake the giant. 

After a few minutes, he manages to wedge himself out, and begins his next task, somehow getting the chain off of Greg’s head. He’ll have to crawl up his neck and onto his chin--and when he does and Greg doesn’t awaken, he almost smiles as he realizes that this might actually work, now he just has to climb up Greg’s face and pull the chain with him. The only challenge he sees is Greg’s nose, as he steps over his lips with relative ease. He starts to walk around the nose, using the contour of his cheek bones as a stepping stone but he loses his balance from the heaviness of the chain, falls forward and his feet kick Greg’s upper lip--

“What the _fuck?”_ Greg mutters, his hands swatting at his face and Nick dares to just _book it,_ stomping on one of his eyes and manages to get to his forehead, his hands lunge forward, grabbing onto the spikes of Greg’s hair and he tries to clamor over the edge but Greg sits up, and Nick falls off of the mountain and into his palm--well almost, because the chain catches him and his shoulders are nearly dislocated as they snap above him.

Greg sighs, taking off the necklace as he lowers back down, his head resting on the bed board, placing Nick to stand on his chest. 

“Nick, c’mon, man,” he tries to appeal to the tiny man, and Nick finally rips the tape off of his mouth, roaring in a flare of pain before he balls it up and flings it at Greg’s face. 

“No! I won’t let you sleep! You can’t do this, you need to make me big again and go to jail--” Nick shouts at the man, stomping his feet on his chest.

“Oh. My. _God,”_ Greg would laugh if he wasn’t so tired and frustrated. “I’ve already done it, Stokes. Get it through that thick head of yours--”

Greg launches his forefinger off of his thumb, flicking Nick backwards and onto the bed as he sits up and gets off of the bed, returning to his vanity and disrobing a bottle of Crown Royal. He turns back to the bed, Nick’s curled up in pain and writhing in the sheets. 

“I think our first stop tomorrow is going to be to an old friend of yours, might put things into perspective for you,” Greg reaches down for Nick, not even bothering to laugh as Nick tries to run across the bed away from the fingers that snatch him up with ease by pinching his torso between his fingers. Any other night, Greg would gladly let Nick run all over him, but as he keeps trying to make it clear; he’s _tired._

He opens the purple velvet pouch and the chain falls in first, draping in folds over itself before he drops Nick on top, not caring if the fall hurts or not. Nick reaches a hand up, his face fallen from childish anger into a soft plea but Greg doesn’t take the time to admire it as he pulls the drawstrings and carries the bag to one of the coat hooks behind his door. He watches as the motion within the sack doesn’t stop of his own accord, Nick must be kicking and punching, trying to get out. He can hear tiny, furious squeaks of rage from the man until he slaps the bag with the palm of his hand and the commotion settles.

“Shut up and go to sleep!” Greg hisses into the wall of fabric, before he turns and falls back into bed, closing his eyes and rubbing his sore lip but the corners of his mouth twitch with the giddy thoughts of how Nick might react to their first errand of the day, before the daydream morphs into an actual dream of strutting through the streets of a shrunken Sin City, taking what he wants and crushing what he doesn’t.

And what he wants most of all, is Nick Stokes, ready and willing to be his greatest experiment.


	8. Pencil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has breakfast with Nick and Warrick gets another step closer though he's verbally shoved back by his supervisor.

Despite Greg’s warning slap to the bag, Nick still tries to get out of the velvet prison. He first attempts to climb up the fabric walls but ultimately slides down the interior fabric onto the pile of chains he then tries to pile up and use as a makeshift step stool, reaching up for the lip of the pouch. He stands on his tiptoes, but loses his balance as his toes slide into the rings of the chain, and both gravity and the weight of the shackles pull him down to the bottom of the bag. 

He huffs in frustration, tries to pry the cuffs off his wrists but the result is the same as before, they don't come off. There’s a small hole that his fingers can fit into but an even smaller hole that requires a pin-sized key that Greg always uses to release the locking mechanism. 

He resigns himself to sit cross-legged on top of the chains, pouting with his chin resting on his fists as he hears the distant snoring of the sleeping giant. His nostrils flare as the sound goes from terrifying to almost endearing to annoying, and he finds himself reluctantly wishing he hadn’t thrown a fit and remained on the warm bed of breathing flesh instead of the cold, crude metal that offers no comfort. He hates to admit it, but even in his trepidation of being manhandled in such a way, Greg did seem to have a gentleness in the way he had cupped Nick against his heart, a certain level of care that inclined Nick to believe there was maybe more to his plan than just crude examinations of the smaller man. Perhaps an interest going beyond the clinical scientific. And with Nick’s fit of anger, he may have ruined the appeal. 

What if that display of intimacy was a one time deal? What is the endgame with him? Is Greg going to finish his “experiments,” whatever they are, and just dispose of him like all of the other victims of his science? Will he be restored to his size, and would Greg even let him go free with all that he’s done? 

The questions keep coming with no answers and keep him up for another few hours before he falls back onto the bed of chains, curling himself up on top with his arms wrapped around his torso, his legs pulled together into a fetal position and he darkly thinks how this pouch is a pseudo womb before he drifts off into another dream about running through an endless maze, running into tiny dead bodies stabbed with tweezers, trapped in petri dishes, burned by a bunsen burner—all the while being chased by a giant hand that grabs his ankle and drags him back to the start—

Suddenly the surface tilts and he falls into a black void, free falling and praying that Greg’s hand is at the bottom to catch him, but when he lands, it’s onto a velvet surface. A pile of chains falls on top of him.

He wakes up to find he’s still in the bag, but the puckered lips of the exit are no longer above him, instead to his side as he cranes his neck to see a light shining through at him. He cautiously scrambles his way out of the chains and starts to crawl towards the hole, prying it wider with his hands and emerging onto a wooden surface, panting from the exertion of having to pull the chains behind him and keep his shackles from tangling. 

“Ah, you’re awake. Was starting to think you’d sleep the day away,” Greg’s voice booms above him.

He sits up on his knees, staring up at the giant man before gathering the clatter of silverware against ceramic that sounds like a strike of lightning pulls his focus down and around to find that he’s on top of Greg’s dining table, and the man is eating a feast of enlarged breakfast food. 

He dips his fork onto the plate and takes a bite of a waffle (a blood waffle, Nick pulls a face at, recalling how he pieced together the usage of the waffle iron as a murder weapon instead of a cooking instrument) before setting the fork down and reaching towards Nick with pinching fingers. Nick tries to roll out of the way but quickly finds he wasn’t the intention of Greg’s grab, rather the chain that trails behind him, which is then draped around a large bottle of syrup. Though Nick knows the bottle seems like a tower to him at his height, it still seems somehow larger than it should be, he can barely even make out the features of the plasticized face, just the outline of the titan’s head.

“Mrs. Butterworth’s gonna keep an eye on you so you don’t go do something stupid like jump off the table,” Greg informs him and Nick immediately tries to scale his new tether to try and reverse the loop, but much to the giant’s amusement, he slides down the curves of the bottle like a bumpy slide. 

“Only in Vegas can you get breakfast and entertainment,” Greg giggles. Nick tries again to climb but this time Greg plucks him off and sets him on the table and taps him on his nose, bestowing a command to his pet. “Settle down while I get your plate ready…”

Nick’s face falls from disgruntled shock at the way Greg had squeezed his fingers around his waist so carelessly and put him in place on the table, to curious befuddlement as Greg draws his attention to another humongous plate of food. 

At first, drool teases the corners of Nick’s mouth, a previously unthought of perk to his miniature size is that the amount of food in front of him is almost endless, all the second, third and fourth helpings he could ever dream of having laid out in front of him. The stench of his sweat coated body overpowered by the freshly cooked food and the billowing cloud of steam piping from a cup of gourmet coffee that was offered to him that started this whole affair still calls to him like a siren’s call. 

He selfishly dares to hope this is Greg’s peace offering, that he’s about to restore Nick to size and while he’ll still err on the side of caution, he would just as easily love to be able to partake in the endless buffet in front of him. But Greg pushes him down with a finger as he makes an eager move to bite into the world’s largest piece of bacon.

“Ah, ah, ah! You and I both know that you wouldn’t be able to finish all of that…” Greg laughs, wagging a derogatory finger in front of Nick before patting him down on his head so that he’s sitting on the table once more. 

“Yeah, just watch me,” Nick mutters as he pats his grumbling stomach. He crosses his legs and arms in uptight defiance, but slightly hunches as a shiver creeps down his spine. He still can’t shake the looming presence of a gargantuan, immobile woman behind him that he now realizes Greg may have super sized for the purpose of having more syrup than what he paid for. “You know you can cure world hunger with this, right?” 

“Curing world hunger wouldn’t pay the bills,” Greg shrugs as he brings out a small vial of liquid that he makes a point of opening in front of Nick, before he reaches for the syrup bottle and a small plastic cup normally used for ketchup at fast food joints. He quickly pours the bottle into the cup before replacing it back in the loop of the chain, keeping Nick in place though he wouldn’t have had enough time to escape anyway, and he was too distracted in what Greg was concocting to even consider the thought—a fact with scares him more than he would like to admit. Greg tips some of the vial into the syrup, and Nick tensely watches for any bubbling or explosion, feeling an odd déjà vu to his demo-days in chem lab, but it’s an anti-climax and nothing appears to react.

Not at first.

“Hope you like syrup…” Greg tells him, winking at Nick before drizzling it all over the plate of food.

Within seconds, the plate is reduced to Nick’s size, albeit slightly larger. Shrinking inward but remaining the same shape, remaining intact. He wants to reach out and stop it from diminishing, fearing it would go so far as to the size of invisible atoms. To a state near non-existence, and it would be better off being consumed in his stomach rather than trapped in a lonely realm that Nick can’t even begin to comprehend. It’s hard enough knowing he’s twice the size of Greg’s thumb, he couldn’t imagine what seeing his skin cells that close would seem like.

If he could even survive that far.

“It’s soluble,” Greg explains as he gets up and walks over to his cabinet, making a point to stretch his body as he reaches for a mug on the top shelf. Nick is too distracted by philosophical examination of his relatively normal sized meal to notice, further wondering if the process had gone just as quickly on him as it did on his food, wondering if ingesting the serum-infused syrup would cause him to shrink more, and wondering if he really wanted to trust the mad scientist as he then proceeds to shrink down a mug and uses a pipette to share some of his coffee with him.

“Lost your appetite?” Greg smiles with a mischievous gleam in his teeth as he goes back to his own food, watching Nick’s hesitation to do anything but sit and stare at the objects in front of him. “C’mon, we have a busy day and I don’t want you to waste away to nothing on me.”

“H...how? W-why are you doing this?” Nick shakes his head, pushing away the plate and feeling an urge to spill the coffee away from him, but instead he just backs away and rises to his feet—not before grabbing a miniaturized knife that he hides behind his back—staring up at the giant man who leans in dangerously close, so close that Nick can taste the savory food in the man’s breath, see the yellow stains from the coffee on his teeth. 

He can even almost taste the syrup on Greg’s tongue. 

Nick holds his ground, staring into Greg’s eyes, trying to determine what the game is here, and if there is some way he can win it. 

Greg also seems to size him up with his own eyes, traveling up and down Nick’s body, noting that one of his arms is crossed behind his back and waving his tongue over his lips, mixing the sweet stickiness of syrup with the cherry lip balm that shines the flesh before he speaks in a simple, but also dangerously malicious tone.

“Why not, Detective?” 

Greg opens his mouth, his tongue rolling out like a carpet for Nick to step onto and the tip of his tongue slabs over Nick’s toes—Nick stumbles back, pulls the knife around from behind his back and throws it at the giant’s face with a shouted and embarrassingly squeaky cursing insult that he hopes stings as hard as the blade. The knife does no real damage other than a paper-cut sized slice that Greg doesn’t even seem to feel. For a moment, the two men freeze and Nick lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, slow but shaky as a tremor of fear rattles his heart that he just made the mistake of pissing off the most powerful man in the room. 

But instead, Greg just wipes over the small cut with his thumb and licks it with a grin teasing the corners of his lips, before he brings up his giant fork and pokes Nick, sending him back onto his butt and scuttling away, tripping over chains as the larger man retreats, laughing at Nick’s quaking panic. 

He chases Nick with the fork, batting him back and forth as Nick tries to roll out of the way. Once he ceases his amusement with toying with the man, he traps him down, going so far as to push so that it just ever so slightly touches his skin—but doesn’t penetrate. Nick grabs onto the bookend prongs, tries to lift the fork in futile effort and his heart beats out of his chest with fear that this is it, Greg’s done with his fun and now he’s going to eat Nick—especially as a darkness flickers over Greg’s eyes while the middle prongs lower down around Nick’s neck, trapping his head in place. Throbbing veins pulse against the unforgiving metal bars but he’s still able to breathe freely. 

He pulls up a pair of tweezers to pick up one of the mini pancakes off of Nick’s plate and drop it onto his face. With his fingertip, he keeps the pancake in place on top of Nick’s lips, forcing him to eat it as his limbs flail against the giant finger poking on his stomach, encouraging his mouth to open.

“I don’t want to hear your whining that I never give you anything,” Greg sighs as Nick recovers from the near suffocation, he coughs out a few bits of unchewed pancake. He takes a pipette full of coffee and drips it into Nick’s mouth before he yells from the burning sensation falling into his throat, the warm pleasure of coffee lost to the bitter earthy liquid simmering on his tongue. _“And_ I need you awake for this…”

As Nick recovers from the coffee assault, Greg obtains another pipette, this time with cool water, drowning Nick in a few drops though he doesn’t take such precise aim, allowing the drops to splash into his eyes, his nose. He eventually removes the fork to continue eating his own food as Nick writhes and coughs, his chest feeling compressed and his stomach reluctantly full. His lungs feel like balloons inflating into shards of glass and his throat feels somehow dry despite the forced hydration.

As soon as he recovers enough to stand up, Greg’s finished eating and plucks Nick up from the table once again pinching him around his waist. Nick tries to flail his way out, though the skydive to the floor terrifies him but Greg just flicks his forefinger onto his butt cheeks and with a tight yelp, and Nick gives up trying.

He carries him over to the desk with the bunsen burner but reaches for the tape dispenser. Nick inwardly groans, wondering if he’d be taped down to the table. Greg pulls a longer piece of tape off than before, wrapping it around Nick’s mouth, but this time wraps the piece around his head entirely, sealing his mouth though he can still breathe through his nose. He unclips Nick from the necklace chain and brings him over to the pair of keys on the key hook next to his door, attaching him to the set before he cleans up his table and seemingly ignores his captive, until he picks up the vial of shrinking serum. He whistles to ensure he has Nick’s attention, tipping the vial towards him and Nick wonders if it’s another threat, or a promise, that he’d be shrunk down further if he didn’t behave. He makes a point of putting the vial in his pocket, patting his hand to the small bulge and stroking it in such a way that seems to send a more...seductive message to Nick which he’s frighteningly aroused by.

He also makes sure that Nick watches his reverse strip dance, first adjusting his pair of jeans so high and tight that he groans—Nick hates the way that the sight and sound makes his body betray him, as Greg then pulls on a dress shirt, letting it remain open and exposed as he puts on his shoes, giving him a perfect teasing view of his chest speckled with a few moles before he begins his approach with one step per button that he snaps, until he’s nose-to-nose with Nick. Nick tries to struggle, knowing that putting on a show of his own is only going to entertain the mad man further, but finds that he’s already exhausted from breakfast.

But not exhausted enough to slip away into sleep, he’s now cursed with hyper awareness. He’s resigned to just dangle helplessly, his feet swaying in the short puffs of heavy breath from the giant. He stares at Nick for a full minute before he takes the keys and walks out the door.

As soon as they pass the threshold, it’s as if all sense of humanity is lost and Nick is treated just as another object on the keychain. As they travel down the stairs, Greg even tosses the keys in the air to catch them in his palm. Nick can feel the bruises forming from the harsh metal of the keys clashing against his body, and though he yells and screams through the tape muzzle as his body is toyed with. There are a few people coming in and out of the apartment building but nobody seems to notice, Greg doesn’t even pretend to—and if he does, Nick’s certain that he’s relishing every moment of this.

He stops tossing Nick as he treks through the parking lot, whistling as he begins to fidget with the keys—and with Nick’s body, passing him through his fingers and fondling the weary limbs, sending jabs of pain as he rubs over the bruised blotches on his skin and making him squeak in the more sensitive areas.

Nick particularly shudders as Greg’s fingers stroke his inner thigh.

They make it to the car and Nick falls onto Greg’s thigh, breathless, he tries to hold a hand up, bargain with the man for a smoother experience but Greg doesn’t care. He lifts the key next to Nick to start the ignition, which pulls Nick up by his hands and onto his feet. He tries to keep balance but his feet don’t fully touch the floor of Greg’s jeans, his arms cramp from being strung up for such a long time. He tries to relax the angle as much as he can, but the chain is taught before he can reach a full ninety degree angle.

Meanwhile, the giant man twists the knob on the radio, and the bass of the loudened music shakes and stirs Nick’s insides. He feels his ears bleed and he’s somehow reminded of Warrick and similar car ride experiences, but he can’t roll down the window or politely ask for the music to be turned down, no. Greg continues to play with his favorite keychain as they drive along, holding the wheel with a few fingers while the others continue to prod Nick back and forth, a pseudo violation as gentle strokes become fidgeting rough-play and Nick doesn’t have a voice to tell him to just _stop!_

The ride comes to an abrupt end and before Nick can even register it, the keys are pulled out of the ignition and he’s shoved into Greg’s coat pocket with another finger jab into his chest. He tries to sit up and leap out, but the pocket is zipped and he’s sealed in darkness. Not learning his lesson from the pouch, he kicks his legs and makes a commotion so that someone might get curious, “hey, what’s going on in that man’s coat pocket?” but he can feel Greg’s hand slowly sandwich the pocket against his body, and he reluctantly settles to instead focus on the sounds of what he can’t see. 

And what he can hear, is the muffled ambience of a crowded place. Familiar yet unfamiliar voices talking, shouting, bustling around. Phones ringing, papers shuffling. At first he thinks perhaps it’s a hospital or some sort of office, but it’s not until Greg’s voice quakes through the jacket that he realizes exactly where they are.

“Excuse me, do you know where I can find Warrick Brown?”

Nick’s heart sinks and his struggles start up again, but in doing so he sinks further into the giant keys that remind him that at this size, he’s insignificant, there’s nothing he can do to stop Greg as he sits himself down and pulls his keys out of his pocket, his fingers immediately finding and wrapping around Nick.

“Look familiar?” Greg whispers, cupping Nick against the side of his face as he drums his fingers on Nick’s desk, opposite to the vacant desk of Warrick Brown.

Nick tries to protest through the tape but all he manages is a few squeaks and cries, moistening the adhesive around his trembling lips. His body tenses, he tries to squirm out of the binding fingers but the grip just tightens even more. Greg pulls up the small vial that he had in his other pocket, and holds it for Nick to see, before pouring its entire contents into Warrick’s bottle of Gatorade. 

“Now. There are two things that can happen,” Greg starts in a harsh, commanding tone but still keeping it a whisper. “One, Detective Brown sits down and indulges in his shrink-drink in front of us and I’m afraid I only need one specimen for my studies, so he’ll be left to fend for himself against the stampede of shoes marching around the station, let alone becoming one of the K-9 unit’s chew toys or a cat’s mouse to toy with, or…”

Greg turns his head so that Nick is in his full field of view, so that his hot breath washes over Nick with wet lips that dare to pucker against his keychain’s torso, the moist tip of his tongue poking gently into Nick’s belly button.

Nick squirms uncomfortably, but can’t deny the hardening bulge that rubs up against Greg’s chin.

“You can promise me that you’ll cease your attempts at escape, allow me to continue with my experiments without protest, I’ll discard Warrick’s drink before he returns and we’ll be on our merry way. I think you like option two more, don’t you?”

Nick stares into the giant’s eyes, absent of any sort of bluff and instead filled with deadly intent. All cards are on the table and he has only one option.

He nods, relaxing his body into full submission.

Greg’s fingers loosen around his body and he reaches for the bottle of Gatorade. He replaces the cap and chucks it into the bin underneath Nick’s desk. Nick allows his body to hang against the palm of Greg’s hand as he pulls Nick away from his face, before setting him gently on top of his own desk. Nick looks around wildly, but confirms that nobody is around to see this though Greg remains cautious enough to shield his prisoner with a cupped hand. He hates that he’s given the scientist full power to toy with the tinier man as they await his partner’s return, and Nick dreads as to why they might have stayed, going so far as to dare to wonder if Greg was lying and he was going to shrink Warrick anyway. He can’t get a good enough read to see if that’s really the truth, watching Greg study him as Nick does a study of his own, seeing his own belongings from a new perspective. His name plate seems like a billboard at this size. A Kleenex box could be a house. Pens and pencils are now pillars that stand taller than him. Greg even pokes at him with the eraser tip of one until Nick is flat on the table. He traces the outline of his body on Nick’s notepad, on top of the notes he was taking about Kristy’s case, incidentally over the words in particular concerning a consultation with Dr. Gregory Sanders. 

All the while, Greg still hovers his hand over his little secret.

He senses Greg stiffen as he ceases his playing and the pencil drops with a rolling drum of thunder. He presses his hand down on top of Nick entirely to conceal him and pushes his daring, reaching hand back in with his thumb in a preemptive move before Nick dares to erupt into a proper tantrum when he hears Warrick’s voice—

“Dr. Sanders...to what do I owe the honor?” 

Greg squeezes and slides Nick towards him, off of the desk and catches him by the ring of his chain. He lets him dangle by his knee for a few seconds, pinching his hands together by the cuffed wrists which is painfully tight. The message is clear as Nick sees the discarded bottle in the trash bin as he’s swayed towards it before being stuffed inside Greg’s pocket, this time with no movement other than an effort to get comfortable.

“Oh, just in the neighborhood, wanted to see if you were able to locate your partner yet...But I’m guessing...No?” Greg leans back with an air of casualty, not even a flinch despite the squirming worm in his pocket. 

“I’m afraid not,” Warrick squints, leaning forward on his desk and instinctively reaching for the bottle he had left behind, but the disappearance of his drink is lost to a question as he tilts his head. “What happened to your face?”

“Nicked myself shaving,” Greg quips back with a telling smirk.

“Dr. Sanders...well this is a surprise,” a voice catches him off guard and he falls forward before looking back to find an approaching Undersheriff Jeffrey McKeen, accompanied by Captain Jim Brass. Greg and Warrick both get to their feet immediately, Warrick a little more tense in his posture as Greg slinks his pride down. He reaches a hand into his pocket and wraps around Nick like he’s a stress ball. 

“Undersheriff,” Greg wheezes in a short breath before he clears his throat and restores his air of authority. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It is _my_ department, after all,” McKeen smiles, extending his hand while Brass takes the opportunity to detach himself from the company and stand next to his employee. “Plus, I wanted to thank you for your extraordinary work on the community greenhouse project.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Greg boasts with a waving hand, winking towards Warrick and Brass with loose modesty. “My next stop is actually to go pick up a few more plants for the collective, I had some spare change laying around.”

“We need more people like you in this city,” McKeen claps his free hand onto Greg’s shoulder, tightens his grip on the shaken hand. “I think we should all strive to be a little more like Dr. Sanders, don’t you, Detective?”

“Sure,” Warrick reluctantly agrees, but he and Greg both know he wasn’t _really_ being addressed, that the question was really a statement, and a rhetorical one at that. 

“Why don’t I walk you out?” McKeen hisses through his teeth in a forcibly casual tone, and Greg channels the tenacity of the man under his own thumb with gritted teeth and a determined smile. 

“By all means, lead the way. Treat me any nicer and I’ll have to buy you dinner.”

Laughter erupts in awkward, chaotic fashion as McKeen leads his charge away, with Greg glancing in a snarky sneer towards the abandoned Detectives behind him. Brass doesn’t seem to have nearly as much discretion as Warrick, who folds his arms and walks around to lean on Nick’s empty desk.

It’s not until Greg turns back around and McKeen is momentarily distracted with a quick chat to the schmoozing lab director Conrad Ecklie that he allows himself to gape at the dumb mistake of leaving his traced drawing out in the open.

The same drawing he hears ripped from the spiral at the top of the notebook.

* * *

“Something’s not right about him,” Warrick shakes his head, staring at the drawing transposed onto Nick’s handwriting. 

“About who, the wannabe Mayor or Doogie Howser?” Brass scoffs sarcastically. 

“Both, but...Something about Sanders leads me to believe he knows where Nick is. Look at this—” Warrick offers up the piece of paper, but Brass doesn’t seem to be that impressed by it.

“Nicky’s doodling again, huh? I don’t blame him. I have a whole book of geometric shapes myself. Helps me think,” Brass begins to muse in a ramble.

Warrick pulls a face before pointing a finger, tracing the outline of a body.

“What? N-no, Jim, look…”

Warrick reaches for the picture of him, Nick and the rest of the squad--a full body shot perfect for comparison against the outline. The traced hair especially gives Warrick no doubt in his mind, that this drawing is of _him._

“Nick didn’t draw this, it wasn’t here yesterday. It must have been Dr. Sanders, according to Metcalf, he was sitting there for a few minutes before I showed up.” 

“So-so, what, you want me to arrest Sanders for leaving Stokes a little love note? Did it ever occur to you that Nick has other friends besides _you?_ Look, it’s none of my business what Nick gets up to when he’s off the clock—”

“When’s the last time he was _on_ the clock? You’re his supervisor, shouldn’t you care when he suddenly not showing up or answering calls—”

“And I’m _yours,_ too, Brown,” Brass hisses, straightening his posture and going toe to toe with Warrick. Warrick remains silent for a beat but his anger doesn’t dissipate. 

Neither does Brass’.

“Do you even care about him?” 

“Of course I do!” Brass snaps in a loud voice that mutes the rest of the department. “Of. Course. I. Do! But _you—”_ he jabs a finger into Warrick’s chest, “—going around making accusations against _very important people_ without probable cause, holding some grudge against a naïve science nerd just because you’re jealous Nick is all buddy-buddy with someone that isn’t you, _isn’t going to help him!”_

“Nick’s DNA was on that latex! Sanders had something he was hiding in that lab! He literally came to the station for no other reason to ask about Nick—”

“I’ve got every uni on the streets keeping an eye out for him and a BOLO on his vehicle. For all we know he may have gone AWOL, he may be drunk in a ditch somewhere, may have vamoosed himself back to Texas. _I don’t know,_ but listen to me when I say yes, _I do care._ When I know something, _you’ll_ know something but until then, just—” Brass rings a hand up in the air, using the other to wipe his face and pinch his nose. “Don’t jump the gun on this. For fuck’s sake, Rick, just...be careful.”

Brass leaves and Warrick’s eyes travel to the camera in the corner of the office, and he decides to pay a visit to the crime lab next door.

* * *

As they walk, Nick manages to shift his position so that he’s standing—sort of, it’s still more of a half-hearted crouch—and pulls down the fold to Greg’s pocket with his tiny fingers gripping the lip of fabric. He tries to remain discreet, only allowing his head to peek out down to his eyes, drawing as little attention to himself as possible. 

He can’t jump out of the pocket while still attached to the set of keys, and knows that a bigger commotion would bring a giant digit down on his head, stuffing him back into uncomfortable darkness. But at least in this position, he can breathe easier through his expanded nostrils, worried what Greg might do if he removed his adhesive gag. 

The two previously engaging men remain eerily silent as they step out of the building, their pace speeding to a crescendo as Greg is nearly pushed to his car. He saves face and swivels before he trips, falling casually on the hood of the vehicle. Nick is jostled back into the pocket but scrambles to his lookout position in dizzy haste.

“I thought I told you to get rid of the car, Sanders,” McKeen hisses in hardly a whisper but the sound still travels down to Nick’s eardrums like a call from the sky. Nick twists his head, his eyes just getting a peripheral look at the grill of the hood that Greg is leaning on. 

He doesn’t even need a magnifying glass. 

He sees the blood up close.

So close he can even see his own damn reflection.

And can see the ghost of the body that it belongs to. 

_Kristy._

Even Nick’s small hands manage to rip through the tough fabric of Greg’s jeans as he releases a scream into the condensed tape that inflates like a balloon with his furious breath to the point of bursting, but is diffused by the thought that Warrick could be next— _would_ be next, if he wasn’t careful and reluctantly obedient in his new place in the world.

“Yeah, well, figured this baby’s still got some nice miles in her,” Greg pats down his hand, drums his fingers at the top of the murder weapon. “And a nice little bargaining chip for a down on his luck low life who decided he’s tired of being treated like scum."

“What is it you want?” 

“Still weighing my options on that one. Got a lotta people interested in this fine piece of _evidence.”_

“Well, here’s a chip to throw into the pot,” McKeen smiles without a trace of humor before he leans into Greg, but also pulls him up by a coiled ball of his shirt. “Your little life of luxury with all your...joy riding won’t be so sweet when you’re—”

“What, you gonna throw me in the pound?”

McKeen chuckles and drops his hold on Greg in a sudden movement that makes Nick fall back into the pit of the pocket.

“There are worse places than prison, Sanders. Don’t ever forget that.”

* * *

He doesn’t know why, but Warrick finds that he’s somehow more comfortable in the moody blue glow of the lab versus the harsh over-lighting of the station. 

Though the lab is not without its own drama and bustle of the day, there seems to be a much more laid back atmosphere—there’s even a Dreamcast in the break room that he and Nick may have snuck into play once or twice during the rare slow night. 

He credits that to the reserved nature of its supervisor on nights, though the administrator above him is just as uptight as his own superiors. 

This leniently lax attitude seems to have also distilled down into the laboratory technicians, who seem bored enough to start whispering rumors of Warrick’s sudden haunting of the halls—perhaps a trade ten years later for their old supervisor, Brass, a mandated transfer he still seems to hold to heart after all these years.

As he always does, he gets right down to business, bypassing the small talk and fortunately for him, Archie Johnson is more than willing to help him with no teasing, no pressing for details. Just good, honest help.

Unlike David Hodges, who he can practically feel breathing down his neck. 

“Trying to figure out when you lost your keys, Detective?” Hodges teases from the doorway.

“Go shove your nose down that microscope of yours and you might be able to find them shoved up your ass,” Warrick mutters and Archie snickers, though remains focused on the task of skimming through the security cameras in the police department. “There—go ahead and play it.”

He watches as Greg sits down, pulls out his keys from his jacket pocket and holds them next to his face. He reaches for Warrick’s drink, pours something into it.

“Whoa…” Archie gasps. “Did he just—?”

“Keep going,” Warrick persists, despite the new heaviness throbbing in his forehead, the dryness of his mouth, the swirling sinking of something in his stomach and an echo of drugged ramblings ringing in his ears…

And the destruction of his heart, as the bottle is discarded—he makes a note, the can under Nick’s desk, he’ll get it analyzed—and Greg spreads his fingers out from what he was holding but the distorted grain doesn’t match colors with the silver keys...it’s more...flesh colored.

“Hang on, stop it there.”

Archie pauses the video.

“Zoom in.”

He unfolds Nick’s note, the very one with Greg’s name scribbled in his hasty handwriting. He does an ad hoc comparison, and as far as he’s concerned, his hunch was right. It’s a match. It’s not entirely enhanced, still pixelated and grainy but he can make out the features of Nick’s face, along with the rest of his body, hanging against the palm of Greg’s hand.


	9. Centrifuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a tantrum that subsides when he displays a rare compassion for a recovering Nick after he loses himself in a dangerous world.

Wherever Greg is taking them next, it’s a trip that’s driven in complete silence, save for the seething breath of the scientist who has seemingly ceased his toying with Nick for the time being. Both of his white knuckled hands are gripping the steering wheel, his leg immobile as his foot becomes a cement block on the accelerating pedal. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge Nick when he pulled the keys out of his pocket and started the car, and has continued to ignore him ever since. Greg hadn’t been quite the same since his talk with McKeen, a conversation which revealed that Greg’s not as high up on the crime ladder as he let on. He’s obviously keeping the car for leverage, probably to blackmail his way to a higher position of power, and if he’s able to do what he’s done to Nick thus far, Nick shudders to wonder what more he could do with a little more freedom. All the pain, humiliation and conflicting feelings could expand tenfold, and he could further diminish Nick’s chances of survival.

And Nick, himself.

The reprieve from said humiliation would be more of a relief if he didn’t feel his blood boiling from the revelation that Greg was responsible for Kristy’s death. He unknowingly knocked on the devil’s door and fell under a seductive spell, very well almost fooling himself into submission by a lover’s lust.

And now he’s just disgusted with himself, and overcome with a new lust; for vengeance. Justice. To take down the giant—it’s not impossible, it’s the stuff of fairytales he was always taught about as a child who was small for his age. 

Still, his chances don’t look good, stripped down and hanging by a thread from the puppeteer’s controlling strings.

He needs to tread lightly, as that thread is getting thinner.

Even more so as he feels that one of the chains loosen when Greg turns off the ignition, but he doesn’t pull the keys out. He gets out of the car, the door hangs open. Nick never quite tunes out the monotonous beeping, the signal of dread as he sways back and forth. He tries to control himself from kicking his feet, sensing that any struggle would sever the connection to the chain entirely. 

Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to break free and have such an opportunity for escape. What’s keeping him in place is the quaking fear as now not only is Nick’s life now literally resting in the palm of Greg’s hand, but Warrick’s rests in the other, a less gentle hand.

Although as Nick hears a loud banging echoing off of the hood of the car, he reckons that Greg may have lost all sense of tender love and care.

It’s the threat on Warrick’s life that really keeps him sobered, makes him re-evaluate the circumstances. He knows that even though those fairytales held the message that the small guy could win despite his size, he’s shrunken down even more than that without any sort of beanstalk to bring him back home. His only real chance is getting back to his normal size, and he can only do that if he plays his cards right. Keeps the charm up. Start playing along to the scientist’s twisted whims. 

It was his initial plan even before he found out about Kristy, but now the prospect seems a bit more difficult. He knew Greg was sick in his torture but didn’t know he was a _murderer._

And then he remembers the waffle iron, seemingly forgotten to everything that’s happened in... _Oh, God,_ he wonders, _how long has he had me?_

Nick should have known the true danger of Greg Sanders from the second they met.

The chorus of the car alarm becomes entangled with a yell that gets louder as the giant comes closer to the door, slamming it shut with such a force that jostles the keys, and Nick along with it. One of the chains attached to his shackled wrist falls apart completely, and he suddenly remembers all of the keychains he’s lost in the past due to the brittle nature of the miniscule links of metal. 

He reflexively begins to kick his legs as he reaches up for the circular loop, wrapping his now free arm around it. He’s never quite had a fear of heights, quite the opposite as he’s taken up parasailing and skydiving, but as he looks down at the carpeted void there’s a churn in his stomach that makes his clinging tighter. This is a bad place to fall, Greg’s feet could easily kick him and stomp on him. Perhaps it’s less of a fear of heights so much as it’s a fear of almost certain death.

If he does fall, he could just hide in the crevices of the car. Under the seat. Make his way to the backseats. 

But that would just make Greg even more angry than he apparently already is, having to search his car. 

It’s another few minutes before the giant devil returns, still ignoring Nick even though he cries out frantically through the tape, wanting to prove his innocence before it’s assumed that he was trying another escape. 

He can just hear the sneering scientist now, _Time to turn this car around and pay another visit to Warrick._

Not only that, but he’d be stuffed away in Greg’s pocket again, zipped up with limited air. At least he can breathe while he’s dangling. 

Although, he can think of worse places to be stuffed into. 

But Greg seems to ignore him as he plops back down into the seat, leaning back with a heavily disgruntled sigh before sending one final punch into the steering wheel, the car horn blaring through Nick’s ears and making him wince.

Nick quickly finds that he’s not forgotten after all as after Greg restarts the engine, his fingers wrap around Nick and pulse around him like he’s squeezing a stress ball. Nick does his best to just remain still, knowing his struggles would only entertain the madman more. He keeps a firm grip on Nick for the beginning of the ride, a laughing scoff as he finally releases him and watches Nick’s body sway back and forth against the keys. 

They return to the continued silence and Nick’s internal clock, as skewed as it may be, estimates about forty minutes before the car comes to a halt and he’s plucked out of the ignition, and dangled in front of Greg’s face.

“You better fucking behave,” Greg warns him, splashes of spit landing on Nick. “Or I’ll—wait a minute...what the--”

Greg squints, pulling Nick closer as he notices that one of the chains was detached. 

The giant’s eyebrows knit together as he brings up his other hand to flick at Nick’s chest, something that in his normal size, wouldn’t bother him in the slighest. He had an uncle who would often playfully flick at his arm or shoulder when he wasn’t looking, and while he would always exaggerate the pain it wouldn’t be more than a second’s pain--not even pain, just annoyance.

This, however, feels like an actual blow to his chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending his body into a fighting flail for balance, fearful that he’d somehow fly off the chain altogether and crash into the dashboard of the car. The sensation lingers far more than a second, a throbbing sting swells his reddened flesh, imprinted with the curve of the fingernail that had assaulted him.

Nick struggles for air between muffled coughs as his lungs burn, his heart stings beneath the easily breakable armor of his body. He can’t help but wonder if Greg had even somehow cracked his sternum. 

“Were you trying to escape again?” Greg growls, wrapping his hand around Nick’s body and squeezing again, which hurts somehow even more than before. Even beyond the tighter hold on his body, he definitely has a cracked a rib. 

Nick shakes his head furiously, and tugs on the broken chain, miming out the event of it breaking off, as keychains tend to do. Greg lifts his chin, his eyes still scrutinizing Nick before he exhales a large puff through his nose that blows on Nick’s flushed face. 

Without another word, Greg gets out of the car and stuffs the keys, and Nick, into his back pocket, engulfed in darkness. 

Nick does his best to settle himself, but can’t get comfortable, constantly squirming his limbs around, trying to push the giant keys away but they’re too heavy for him to move more than a small budge.

Greg senses the struggle and presses his hand against his back pocket as he starts to talk to someone else.

“Hi, I’m, uh, looking for Kelly Gordon?”

He knows that name. 

He doesn’t remember from where or when.

“Oh, she’s right over there.”

“Thanks.”

Nick feels the walls close in around him, suffocating him, trapping him between the fabric force of Greg’s hand and the jagged wall of keys and he gets the message. He stops moving, though he’s still in an awkward position, one key even jabs into his stomach, another is pinning his leg. Greg’s hand retreats and he hears the voices continue.

“Ah, Greg, came to get your order?” 

“Yeah, good to see you, Kelly. Car’s right over there,” 

Nick’s stomach lurches from all of the movement, his stomach acid churning like a washing machine with the bumpy ride.

“Hey, I just wanted to uhm...Just wanted to thank you, for what you did for me. You know, with...the styrofoam cup.”

 _That’s_ where Nick heard that name before. Kelly Gordon, a suspect in a murder on Viking Circle. Eyewitness accounts said she was there, but there was no evidence at the scene to link her. And all the witnesses saw were her running away from the house—however, not necessarily out of it. 

Nick had interviewed her himself, and there was an eerie coolness around here even as she described how yes, she heard gunshots and ran because that was her first instinct. But no, she wasn’t inside the house and didn’t know the victim or the perpetrator.

He always knew she was lying.

“Don’t mention it...although, if you do...there is something I need.”

“Anything.”

“Need to take a peek at the...underground stash.”

A beat, Greg stops walking.

“Now?” Kelly whispers.

“Afraid so. Time is of the essence, and the stuff you’ve got has a particular...essence that I need.”

Another beat, and Nick’s really too focused on the thumping pain in his body to hypothesize on what Kelly could be dealing.

“We’ll have to make it quick. I’m supposed to meet my dad for lunch.”

There’s a crack of light that expands as Greg pulls his keys out of his back pocket, quickly curling Nick into the cover of his fingers as he opens his trunk. Greg reaches back to shove his keys back into the pocket, Nick dares to take a look to see what exactly is going into the trunk when suddenly…

Greg’s hand unfolds.

The other chain, having been rubbed one too many times, becomes broken.

And Nick’s worst fear comes true.

He falls towards the ground, the pulsing pain now overcome with a flailing flight as he tries to call upon his instincts when skydiving, spreading his arms and legs out despite the screaming soreness from being cramped in a ball. As he pummels down, he keeps waiting for his salvation to kick in, closing his eyes and imagining soaring like a bird into a safe landing.

Except he doesn’t have a parachute to break his fall.

He puts his arms in front of him to cushion his head, and for a second he had almost forgotten about the cracked rib until he feels as if it has snapped off entirely when he meets the brown earth, softer than the surface of a dehydrated desert, but it’s still a hard enough collision to rattle his bones.

He blacks out for a few seconds, maybe even a few minutes, because when he opens his eyes to view the vast landscape of a giant forest of trees and plants, Greg’s nowhere in sight.

He struggles to get to his feet, his first few steps are really a crawl on his hands and knees as he chokes back the unsettling fear that comes in increasingly large waves as he’s reminded just how small he is. How fragile. How _vulnerable._

Unlike the lab or Greg’s house, there’s really nowhere to hide from the stampeding feet of the nursery’s workers and customers, or from the once small creatures that are now large predators, or from the danger of being scooped up in the talons of the birds he academically admires and becoming dinner for the offspring that are probably still even bigger than him. 

And not only that, but Greg will kill Warrick the second he realizes Nick is missing.

He has to find his way back.

He can take the gag off but he has no time, he needs to _run._ He needs to get back into the pocket like nothing happened, removing the gag would just be a sign that something did, and even just one hint of the amiss could set Greg off into his killing instinct. He’s demonstrated many times how the restraint he’s held in his care of Nick, and he can only imagine that the scorned scientist would do far worse after following up on the broken bargain for Nick’s submission.

He first runs underneath Greg’s car, contemplates just waiting for his return or even trying to scale the vehicle and try to slip in through some sort of crevice but the timing just wouldn’t work. Greg moves swiftly, even for his enormous size compared to Nick. He thinks back to his previous climb down Greg’s leg—he probably wouldn’t even make it up half his leg by the time Greg got into the car, and that’s not factoring in the sweeping movements potentially knocking him off, or an unaware scratch that could send him flying. 

Greg mentioned an underground stash—was it literally underground, Nick wonders, as he notices the footprints in front of the truck, smearing together but ultimately leading towards a large building in the distance, presumably the nursery’s main office, and possibly where Greg might be. There appears to be a cellar door on the side, though his vision is blurred and unfocused, perhaps it’s a mirage from his desperate mind wanting an easy solution.

Still. Worth a shot.

His legs falter as he runs past his body’s capacity. He falls against a nearby mound of dirt, taking cover next to a nearby bush that’s more like an enlarged tree to his size. Its base is as firm as a trunk as he leans against it, when normally, he would have knocked the bush over and snapped it.

There’s a quiver beneath the muzzle of tape as he thinks about how easily _he_ could be snapped.

And how easily Warrick could be snapped, if Greg did this to him, too.

He intends to allow his body to rest for the absolute minimum time necessary, but his recovery is cut short by the thundering approach of another giant.

“Hey, an ant hill! Cool!” A loud, but higher pitched voice excitedly cheers, almost in a...childish manner.

Nick barely has time to register the smaller, but still titanic foot that slams down just inches from his body and into the side of the relative mountain in front of him—because what else do kids do with an ant hill besides stepping on it? An avalanche of dirt begins to slide down, Nick’s eyes widen and he holds back a scream as he immediately leaps to his feet and starts to run away, but then there’s another stomp in front of him that sends him backwards, and then another swooping kick over his head, and then more stomps trampling around him, trapping him in—

He curls up, his ears pricked up by the sound of a child’s gleeful laugh as the giant boy continues his stampede, and Nick just now notices another stampede coming out of the broken home. There’s flecks of red mixed in with the dirt, running away just as Nick tried, but with less of a preservation instinct that ultimately causes their demise underneath the stamping press of shoes, just barely visible in the storming battlefield around him. He can hear the squelches and cries of the ants. He shuts his eyes and prays to whoever will listen that he won’t be next, too terrified to make a move, but very aware that he could be next at any moment.

The tornado of dirt comes to a fade as the boy tires of his attack on the ants. The dust settles and Nick uncurls himself to see if perhaps the bored child had retreated away. 

Or worse, went to go get a friend to help demolish the hill. 

Instead, in the glaring beam of the sun in the sky he can see the shadowed outline of the titan looking down at him, slowly descending towards him with wide eyes and a toothy smile as he reaches for Nick.

“Whoa, an action figure!” 

Nick shakes his head, holding up his hands and yet freezing—sure, Greg has done some terrible things with his human experiment, but in the hands of a destructive boy who views him as nothing but a toy? 

For once, he actually _wants_ Greg. Would much rather be _his_ plaything, if he had to choose, and it’s the acceptance of that role that scares him, but not as much as the next question that comes to mind.

What if the boy realizes that his new toy is somehow _alive?_

It’d probably make it more fun for the kid, and far less so for Nick.

He’s lifted up by one of his legs, upside down and though it’s a shorter ride it’s still a sickening one between the swirling thoughts of his paranoia and the sloshing of his insides from the rapid movement. He’s grateful for when it stops, but not in the face of his new captor who has an even worse smile than Greg does when he’s staring at him—a small, pudgy finger starts to poke into his face, right into his eyes, but then the exhilarated curious face falls as another voice booms through the air—

“Parker! Put that down, you don’t know where it’s been.”

“Sorry, Mom…” The disappointment in the boy’s voice doesn’t match up to the relief in Nick’s body that quickly turns to fear as he’s catapulted towards the collapsed ruins, right into the center of what could be mistaken for a volcano, the lava being the pouring of fleeing ants scrambling to rebuild. 

This fall, while not as bad as the previous one still _hurts_ nonetheless, and this time he doesn’t fall onto the dirt, but _into_ it. His eyes sting from the poking jab and from the dirt that blinds him. His chest is getting closer and closer to the point of a literal flatline, getting smashed so many times that the cage inside his body has opened, pressing against his sides. Even his limbs are starting to feel almost...detached at his shoulders and knees, a tingling pain every time he makes a movement. 

Nick tries to get to his feet and flee towards the building and away from any more giants, but one of the surviving ants bites his ankle and begins to pull, ripping his flesh and just narrowly missing a tendon. And then another bites his wrist, and another starts to climb on his back—miniscule legs now with the weight of a small dog, many dogs that begin their feast. Pinchers tear more of his skin apart, he feels something inject into his bloodstream, feels his blood _boil_ as his heart nears eruption. They start attacking the other parts of his body, bumps rising all over his skin, even on his face, puffing around his eyes and almost severing his neck.

Eventually, the ravaging subsides as gusts of air swoosh around his body, offering little to no cool comfort in the bubbling heat of his body. It’s not until he feels the back of a giant hand brush against him that Nick realizes that the ants are being swatted away. Giant fingers excavate him out of the earth, pulling him up by a pinch of his shoulder and gently shake the final ant off as he squirms out of the hold and rolls face first into the dirt in recovery.

Just out of the swollen crevice between involuntarily fluttering eyelids, he can see Greg looking down on him, a fuming scowl and burning eyes boring into him that snuffs out the relief he feels in seeing the man he was so desperate to get to.

His heart falls even further as Greg reaches for him. He carelessly scoops him up and encases him, _squeezing_ out what little air remains in his body—

He wakes up on a soft surface, the smells and sounds of nature eradicated by a clinical collection of chemicals and machinery. He peeks an eye open, a gasp for air blocked by the tape still around his head, and the warm Nevada sunlight is now a burst of fluorescence roasting above him. His hands uncurl from the fists against his chest underneath a thin blanket that he kicks off as he sits up, the sensation feeling akin to the tickling legs of the giant ants, and realizes he’s on some sort of bed. For a moment he dares to hope that he's at home, having woken up from a terrible nightmare, but after he adjusts to the harsh spotlight of the desk lamp and his field of vision expands, he realizes he’s back in Greg’s lab. Back on a counter. 

On top of a mattress that his body doesn’t sink into. 

He rubs his eyes, incidentally rubbing the irritation of dirt into his sockets and is sort of...surprised to find that he’s still in the same battered condition, unlike the last time he woke up after a serious injury, completely healed by Greg’s miracle of science. His eyes burn as he examines the boils all over his body which seem to warm him more than the so-called blanket that he recognizes as a tissue—he’s on a _pile_ of tissue which furthers the disturbing upset of the situation even more, to be so easily managed with cheap, ordinary materials laying around. 

But his rising anger quickly turns to dreading fear as he spots the tweezers, next to a scalpel a few feet away to one side, and then a giant syringe to the other. 

It’s then he looks down around the so-called “mattress,” and finds that he’s on some sort of metal tray that he immediately tries to scamper off of, but as he falls off of the tissue-bed and onto one of its sides, it tips over and clatters against the countertop, the noise deafening Nick but only for a moment before he hears Greg’s booming voice—

“Oh, you’re awake already…”

He looks up wildly, watching Greg approach, adorned with his lab coat and gloves, but also a pair of glasses that has some sort of goggling attachment on top of them. He’s carrying a small ceramic bowl—a mortar, from what he remembers from his science classes—and a small hand towel. 

Greg sets down the bowl next to Nick and sits himself on top of a nearby chair, scooting himself closer to the desk. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and closes it again when Nick cowers away. His face is less intimidating than before, no longer full of the rage that had overcame him though Nick can’t really see his eyes, to judge what he might be thinking. 

“I figure I’d let you clean yourself off this time,” Greg begins to say as he gently scoops Nick from one side into a cradle of his gloved hand, using the tweezers with the other hand to prod behind Nick’s head, peeling off the tape that does not come off so pleasantly, the splotches of adhesive that weren’t moisturized prickling his skin. He groans but sucks in as much air as he can though his mouth as if he would never be able to again, almost falling into some sort of hyperventilation and even more so as the tweezers travel down to his underpants.

Nick’s hands fight against the metal prongs, just as they’ve done before and Greg pauses when he tries to exert as much strength as he can, even in his weakened state to fight off the instrument.

“You’re soiled,” he answers Nick’s unspoken question. “Quite literally, actually.”

“Don’t care. Y’ain’t seeing me naked!” Nick cries out in a squeaking hoarse voice. His cheeks burn but his eyes show his defiance, even as he anticipates Greg’s threats and force to take them off anyway.

Instead there’s another surprise, as the tweezers retreat and Nick’s hands cover his crotch. 

“How about I let you take them off?” Greg suggests in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “I won’t look, I promise.”

He slides Nick into the mortar and Nick sits into the water, shimmying off his underwear and tossing it over the side. Meanwhile, Greg rolls backwards to the other side of the lab, obtaining a glob of soap before he returns to Nick and offers the tip of his finger. Nick grabs a fistful of the liquid soap and hesitantly begins to scrub his body, his eyes locked onto the observing scientist though he turns away when he stands up to thoroughly wash his nether regions. 

When he turns back, he sees Greg’s face tranced in a pink blush and his mouth gaping open.

“What?” Nick dares to ask in a sour tone.

“Looks like a pair of cherries,” Greg giggles as he cups his fist against his chin, leaning on the table. Nick’s ears burn as he realizes he was staring at Nick’s ass, and he quickly sits down—well, _slips_ down in the makeshift bath which earns more giggles from his audience of one as he splashes the water furiously, spilling out the side onto the metal tray before he reluctantly continues to wash himself.

“Scared the shit out of me, you know. I thought I lost you,” Greg breaks the silence with a clearing of his throat once Nick finishes by washing his face, ruffling his hair with his fingers after shaking off the excess water. Greg offers his hand and Nick climbs onto it, shivering in the sudden cold before he’s carried to the towel. “I probably should have gone with the necklace instead of keeping you as a keychain…”

“Then you could have fallen into my pants, instead,” Greg adds with a snort.

“It’s not funny! I could have _died!”_ Nick pouts as he sits down on the towel, wrapping himself within it like a cocoon. Greg had put the towel near the edge of the countertop, and Nick dangles his legs over the edge, letting water shake off with swaying kicks of his feet. 

“I know...I’m sorry,” Greg’s laughter quickly subsides into sadness. He rolls away again, this time returning with a thimble the size of a large chalice to Nick and a bottle of water. He pours some water into the thimble and offers it to Nick, then leans back to watch him with a softer look than before. Pity, perhaps?

“Why are you suddenly being nice to me?” Nick asks suspiciously. “And...all of the sudden _apologizing_ to me? You think that’ll just...make us friends or somethin’?”

Greg’s eyes darken and he moves away, turning his back to Nick to begin working on something unseen to the tiny man.

“I _am_ sorry...about Kristy.”

Nick bows his head, setting the thimble aside and gripping the edges of the counter.

“You have no fucking right to say her name!” he barks out, but he may as well be yelling into a canyon as the sound wouldn’t reach Greg’s ears.

“I know you have every reason not to believe me, but it was actually an accident. I didn’t mean to hit... _her.”_

“If you’re really sorry, then why don’t you fess up. Turn yourself in?”

Greg does seem to hear that, as he lifts his head from whatever he was working on and his back rises and falls with a heavy sigh before he twists around to Nick.

“I’m sure you noticed that uhhh...I’m in quite a predicament right now. I have...needs to fulfill, for a lot of people, and that accident shook things up more than I would have liked, but it might have been a blessing in disguise—” Nick seethes at Kristy’s death being described as a _blessing._ “—I might finally be able to rise up through the ranks—”

“For what!?” Nick yells to him, tossing the towel off and standing to face the giant that lowers his face towards him. “What you’re doing, regardless of what you’ve already done to me—” Nick gestures to himself, before reaching down for the thimble and throwing it at Greg though he misses, having underestimated the heavy weight to the usually weightless object—just another on a long list of humiliating revelations, “—is _madness!_ This is insane! _You’re_ insane, you need help—!”

“So do you, my little specimen...” Greg smiles darkly, pointedly looking at Nick’s exposed member that he quickly covers with his hands, after batting away Greg’s approaching finger.

“You can’t keep getting away with this!” Nick growls. 

“Yeah, well...I’m going to. No matter what it takes. And there’s nothing you can do to—Hey! Don’t scratch!” Greg pulls Nick’s arm away from his other arm as he notices one of his hands starting to scratch at the giant bump protruding from his wrist. 

Nick huffs and curls his handled arm around Greg’s finger, his fingers ball into a fist and he tugs hard, as if he could somehow pull Greg down and maybe slam his face into the counter. David versus Goliath. Jack the beanstalk climber versus the giant. Detective Nick Stokes versus the mad scientist Greg Sanders.

“Cute,” Greg smirks as he easily pulls his finger away from Nick, but not before he lets Nick exert himself to the point where he suddenly falls back from the sudden release, bouncing onto his butt and propping himself up with hands flat at his sides, though one hand rests over his shattered chest. 

“But now that you mention it, I suppose I do need a little help,” Greg sighs as he pulls back, stroking his chin as he continues to eye Nick.

“Maybe...if you make me bigger?” Nick offers, to which the scientist simply smiles again and pushes Nick down on his back with a finger. Nick winces, even the tip of Greg’s finger causes immense pain to his broken rib that he’s not even sure Greg is aware of, despite his slower movements and obvious signs of pain.

“Nice try,” Greg’s tongue flicks out over his lips as he continues to hold Nick down with one finger, while reaching over with his free hand for a small bottle of disinfectant that he dabs onto a wad of wipes, splotching over the open wounds over Nick’s body that _stings._ Nick hisses, and is distracted by his pain until noticing the tube of ointment that he squirts onto his fingers, and starts to massage over Nick.

“What happened to your healing potion or whatever the fuck that was?” Nick grumbles though he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t at least somewhat pleasurable, and Greg was being gentle enough in his handling of his captive to cause not as much pain as before when he had roughly washed Nick under the sink faucet. In fact, he seems to know just how to manipulate Nick’s limbs in a softer manner, as if he has done this before. 

“Ran out. That’s why we went to the nursery in the first place, the aloe plants play a big role, but I’m still missing more ingredients,” Greg frowns as he slows his movements over Nick’s chest, seeing the phantom of his fingernail flick beneath the ragged landscape of the bumpy surface.

He flips Nick over, much to his chagrin and keeps him pinned down with a finger on his spine while he rubs his butt cheeks.

“Hey! The ants didn’t bite me there, man!” Nick squeaks. 

“Can’t help it. Again...like a pair of cherries,” Greg shrugs as he works on the back of Nick’s thighs, down over his calves and around his swollen ankles. 

“You’re sick.” 

“And you’re scrumptious,” Greg growls seductively with a gentle flick into his butt to indicate that he’s finished with his massage. “Few more coats of this cream and you should be fine.”

“Wait...is that...hemorrhoid cream?!” Nick gasps loudly as he looks at the label on the bottle. 

“Works on my acne all the time,” Greg starts to stroke Nick. _Pet_ him, even as he sits him up and he strokes his back with one finger. Nick realizes what he’s doing and shrugs his finger off. 

“This isn’t acne! This is...this is like poison ivy or somethin’. I’ve got _venom_ in my body, I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more than—”

“ _Relax,_ little guy,” Greg shushes him as he lifts him up by his waist, setting him into the palm of his other hand as he carries him away from the counter to the other side of the room. Nick sits cross-legged and cross-armed with a scrunching scowl on his face. “I think I’ve taken pretty good care of you so far, don’t you?” 

Before Nick can say anything, Greg presses a finger against his face and holds, but not long enough for Nick to pass out. 

“And as for the venom, well, there is a way we can maybe...separate it out. And after all, we do need to proceed with our ongoing experiment...”

 _Your ongoing experiment. Not mine,_ Nick affirms silently to himself, despite the conflicting statement he made to himself earlier about _wanting_ to be Greg’s to do with as he pleases.

He’s grateful that Greg can’t read his mind, though in the shared silence and as Greg peels off the magnifying glasses he was wearing...his eyes seem to gleam with some sort of sixth sense that shudders through Nick’s body.

He suddenly wonders if the giant syringe was filled with truth serum.

Greg removes his finger and Nick looks at him with confusion before he’s startled by the pressurized sound of a chamber opening and he quickly realizes it’s a centrifuge and starts to climb frantically over Greg’s hand for some sort of escape, pain be damned as he hangs over the side of Greg’s finger, kicking at the latex. Greg pinches him around his waist once more, before he’s placed into a large plastic test tube with a cap screwed on top that has a hole to allow air. Nick bangs his fists against the plastic as he shifts his feet from side to side, only one of them able to touch the bottom of the concave tube at a time.

He never thought he was claustrophobic, but recent events had made him reevaluate that. The hypobaric chamber. The endless maze. The pouch. The pocket. The ant hill. And now, this, an even smaller prison than ever before, his elbows digging into fractured ribs. His knees unable to straighten lest he wants his head to plug the only chance for air. 

“Oh, stop crying. You’ll be fine. Think of it like one of those amusement rides. Tilt-O’-Whirl or...an extremely fast carousel,” Greg smiles at him, planting a kiss through the tube before inserting it in the dark chamber. 

“Don’t do this! Please! Greg! GET ME OUT OF HERE!” he shouts, his voice rising higher and higher as if a plea would be enough to stop the scientist’s whims.

“Though I suppose, it’s more amusing for me than it is for you,” Greg laughs as the lid to the machine is closed, a button is pressed, and Nick begins to scream.


End file.
